The Shrouds of the Past
by maximsk
Summary: Four thousand years before Alduin's return, the war-torn land of Skyrim has finally fallen under the control of the men known as Nords. But they are not alone in the place they call home. Skyrim has always been a field of battle for those in it, and in this era, history will be written in the blood of whoever stands in its way. None are safe.
1. Unknown Perils

Middas, 11:53 AM, 23rd of Sun's Height, 1E 173

Gates of Dusk

The problem with the ruins of Skyrim was not that they were dangerous. It was that they were ruins. Even after a mere couple centuries of neglect, a building could be reduced to nothing, be it by deliberate damage or simply by the elements. And that was far worse a shame than any sort of danger. So much hidden knowledge, so many lives' work, lost forever to the darkness of history. These ruins were full of things that didn't deserve to be buried.

As far as Sirese was concerned, it was the least she could do to try and uncover some of them. She hadn't become Thane of Hjaalmarch by sitting around and waiting.

The Gates of Dusk were a prime example of this sort of issue. She had not so much as known about this ruin until only the other week. Like most ruins of any real age, the surviving portion was largely underground, which at least shielded it somewhat from the decay of nature. The only visible portion consisted of the gigantic, ornately sculpted iron doors on its westward hillside—the ones, ostensibly, for which the ruin had been named.

Unfortunately, it had been built beside the swamps of her hold's northern half. Its great doors were now sunken halfway into the ground, and fused together with rust. Whatever decoration had adorned their surface was unrecognizable now. The very foundations of this ruin had been slowly descending into the earth. In a few hundred years, it would likely be gone entirely. Entering normally was out of the question.

So here Sirese stood, at the bottom of a sloped pit of muddy earth, just deep enough to come up past her head. The base of the pit was just about as wide, exposing a solid, gently arched surface of stone. There was plenty of room to stand around on.

She and her housecarl had been very busy with their shovels these past couple days. As it happened, ruins on hillsides tended to have hilltops above them.

"I think we're ready," Sirese said. "Ydris, the flask?"

At the moment, the man was standing above her, right at the pit's edge. Ydris, her housecarl, her husband, likely a few other things of hers in between. He made an imposing sight in his steel armor. Then again, no doubt did Sirese herself. No doubt would anyone with the good fortune to wear what they wore. The High King might have proclaimed his people the one of Nords, but their blood still bore the Atmoran affinity for steel.

"Careful," Ydris murmured, as he lowered the ebony vessel down to her. It was a simple thing, about the size of a typical tankard, with a threaded lid and a lever-operated spout. But there were Daedric artifacts that were safer to carry than this.

Sirese wordlessly accepted the metal flask, then knelt down over the stone. This would have to be done very carefully. She took a deep breath in… and began to slowly exhale. Even her lungs might not be safe from this.

She poured out its contents in a slow, controlled dribble, tracing a complete circle in the stone around her. And where the liquid touched the stone surface, it instantly sputtered to life, hissing and frothing, dissolving everything in its path. This would not take long at all.

The Dwemer used this substance to extract pricelessly rare metals from otherwise-unusable ores. No doubt, they would hardly appreciate how Sirese was using the flask's worth to explore a Nord ruin. Actually, they wouldn't appreciate that she was using it at all. They were likely still looking for it.

The moment she was done, she stepped out of the foaming circle, and took Ydris' hand for a lift. She came up out of the pit with just two steps in the soft loam slope. Safe at last.

Sirese took another moment to drink in the fresh air. The acid's fumes had been prickling at her face even without her breathing in. As an afterthought, she cast a brief healing spell upon herself, in case.

"Show-off," Ydris muttered.

"Only as much as need be," Sirese grinned, before tossing the empty flask in the general direction of their campsite. Then she turned around to view her handiwork.

To her delight, the circle looked to be just about perfectly uniform in shape. The acid had already eaten a narrow, deep groove into the stone, and was still going. It would have taken days to do this job safely with pickaxes. This method was going to take mere minutes. Sirese was content to watch and wait.

In fact, it happened only two minutes later. There was a sudden, messy-sounding cracking noise from the stone below, and an instant later, the entire circle of stone simply fell away, leaving an empty dark hole in its place. A couple seconds after that, it landed loudly on some hard surface down in the depths.

"Well," the Thane said, clapping her hands together. "Let us give it a few more minutes for the acid to settle down, and then we can toss in the rope. Is it ready?"

"As it'll ever be, I reckon." Ydris gave the rope in question a tug. They'd brought a good hundred feet of the stuff, and tied one end around a nearby tree trunk. The rest of it was knotted every couple feet, for easier climbing.

Not that either of them needed knots to climb a rope. It was more a question of climbing a rope while wearing heavy armor. And Sirese had no idea how tall the room below was going to be.

She spent the intervening time preparing herself for the task ahead. Checking her armor, her weapons, her potions, doing some stretches to warm up, bringing the coil of rope over to the pit. They were about to enter a place where the living hadn't been in centuries. Even if she was indeed used to that thought by now, there was no sense in getting careless.

Eventually, Sirese clambered down into the earthen pit and checked on the edges of the new hole. The acid seemed to be done with its work by now. She could see a little of the room down below, too, from the sunlight coming in. It was close to exactly noontime, and at this time of year, the sun wasn't far from the zenith. There was a very visible circle of well-lit stone flooring, about twenty feet down.

"The rope, please," she said, holding out a hand without looking.

Ydris threw the coil of rope straight past her into the hole. It unfurled all the way down to the bottom, where the excess all landed heavily on the floor.

Sirese held up her empty hand in exasperation, then sighed and started climbing down. Close enough.

The first thing that she noticed was the air. Every Nord ruin she'd ever really explored had been underground, and it was always unpleasantly stale. This … wasn't much of an exception, but somehow, it felt warmer and cleaner than the air outside.

Maybe because of the swamp so nearby. But that didn't feel like a complete explanation. In any case, it was quiet in here.

She ended up landing right on the thick disc of stone from the hole in the ceiling. It had broken in two from the impact of the landing, which flattened out its arching curve. The moment Sirese landed upon it, she hopped off onto the floor proper, and dual-cast a single spell.

It was akin to the alteration spell of candlelight, but divided by a hundred. A brilliant multitude of glowing white motes of energy spread through the air around her, out to a radius of ten or so feet, lighting up the room with a diffuse glow. Even after reaching their full distance, the dots of light all drifted through space, slowly orbiting the Nord's body.

Oh, how she loved the ways of the arcane. The magic-fearing Dwemer didn't know what they were missing.

Besides that acid, anyway.

The room looked like a typical antechamber to a Nord ruin. On her left were what had to be the front doors—the Gates of Dusk, as they were known—except that the walls had broken down in that area, and the doors were blocked to about halfway up by a huge slope of dirt. On her right was a much smaller doorway, with a staircase down to some lower area. And on the remaining two sides were a few recessed shelves. For draugr.

Like the ones that were climbing out onto their feet right now.

There were four of them, in total. Two in front of her, two behind. They were warriors, armed and armored, like her—but their gear was as old as this ruin. And so were they themselves. Their bodies were withered, sinewy things, with eyes that glowed eerily blue in the dark. Life had left these beings. They existed only to defend their resting place.

Sirese reached down to her belt, and pulled up her war axe in one hand. If she couldn't handle these few creatures, she was going to be very disappointed in herself.

Before the draugr could close in, she leapt forward and batted the left one's mace downwards with her axe, only to bring its edge right back up into the assailant's throat. There was enough power in her swing that it went through nearly to the bone.

The light in its eyes instantly went out. That was Sirese's first kill of the day.

It was no coincidence that she'd brought an axe with her today. In fact, it had been made specifically for this task. Generally, she preferred swords, for how quicker and nimbler they were to use. But draugr flesh was too tough and dry for swords to cut well into, and thrusts were near useless against an enemy that couldn't bleed. The weapon in her hand now was a Skyforge steel axe, with enough heft behind it to cleave straight through flesh and bone alike. It was the perfect draugr-killer.

It also had a wide enough edge that it wouldn't readily get stuck in targets. Sirese turned to face the right-hand draugr and pulled her axe free in one swift motion.

This one had a sword and shield. Not a bad combination. But the other two draugr were coming close. Sirese had only a couple seconds to act. She lunged in once again, and brought her axe down atop the draugr's shield, deflecting an incoming sword strike with her free bracer on the way. But it wasn't as though she wanted to damage the shield at all. She simply yanked it downwards using her axe as a hook, and then stabbed her axe's spike into the creature's exposed face. That stunned it just long enough for her to kick it onto its back.

At that moment, the other two draugr caught up with her. She didn't even have time to put her foot down. One of the draugr, wielding a huge angular longsword, brought its weapon right down on her shin. It would've taken her foot nearly off, except that there was a steel armor plate in the way. The impact barely even hurt.

Fortunately, by this point, Sirese's magicka had replenished a little from the light spell. She deftly circled to the right, putting the two draugr in a row in front of her, keeping her axe on guard the whole time. Then she raised her free hand and sent a jet of searing flame across them both.

It wasn't like with a living target. Draugr flesh wasn't only unliving—it was dry. The fire ignored what little armor the creatures were wearing, and tore right through their skin like it was made of paper. Their muscles fared no better, steadily disintegrating as they burned. But draugr flesh also wasn't like a living target in that the draugr didn't even care. They kept trying to attack her all the same. And after a couple seconds of backpedaling and casting the spell, Sirese ran dry of magicka once again.

And now the draugr were both on fire. So that was good.

The front draugr, the one with the longsword, had taken the brunt of the damage. It lifted its weapon slowly, intending to make some sort of vertical strike, despite its own degraded muscles. Sirese didn't wait for the strike to come down. While the sword was up, she stepped forward and swung her axe straight into the draugr's forehead. That was more than enough.

That left just one draugr still standing. Still on fire a bit, but very much standing. And it still carried a sword in one hand. But it raised its free hand to cast a spell instead, and sent forth the very start of a stream of frost—before Sirese deftly chopped the offending hand off.

At that moment, Ydris landed behind the draugr, and swiftly beheaded it with a single stroke of his own axe. There was that dealt with. The draugr's body crumpled to the floor, finally devoid of its unliving energy, and missing a hand and a head.

"I had it already," Sirese snapped.

Ydris shook his head mirthfully. "And here I thought you were going to complain I took too long."

"That too. Some housecarl you are."

The one draugr with the shield was struggling back to its feet. Ydris walked over and casually took its head off as well.

"My sword and my shield," Sirese went on, trying hard not to grin. "Killing the enemies that weren't threatening me, protecting me from enemies I already brought down."

The Nord man shrugged at her amiably. "You know I didn't have to be a housecarl. I could've sworn my oath to the Companions instead. Gone around slaying all the terrible Falmer, or whatever they do."

"And I didn't have to become Thane of Hjaalmarch. I could've been one of High King Harald's by now. But then you'd be bored, and I'd be bored, and Yngva wouldn't exist."

"How many times have we had that conversation, again?"

Sirese started walking towards the far doorway as she spoke. "Well, Yngva is fifteen, say we have this conversation once a week—how many weeks are in a year?"

"Fifty-two."

"Fifty-two times fifteen… five… uh…" Sirese quickly did some numbers in her head. She was grateful she even knew how to do this. Most Nords didn't. Incidentally, it was very easy to cheat Nord merchants sometimes. "All right, this is the seven hundred and eightieth time we've had that conversation. Contemplating how we could've done differently in life."

"In fairness, we do _not_ talk about that once a week."

The doorway led to a staircase heading downward—no surprise there, the hill on top of this ruin wasn't big enough for anything else. It went down twenty feet or so, then turned a corner and proceeded out of sight. Even with her spell active, this was still an ominous descent into darkness. Looking down ancient abandoned passages underground tended to have that effect.

As she began her way down, Sirese switched to holding her axe by the head, snug between her fingers in a resting grip. These staircases never had railings. If she fell and landed on her own axe the wrong way, she would be the laughingstock of Sovngarde forever.

Also, then she wouldn't be there for Yngva anymore. It was nice to have something to come home to, but having a daughter was another matter entirely. She was the sweetest young woman anyone could have wished for. Perhaps Sirese could find some trinket in this ruin to bring back to her.

The staircase proceeded down to a second corner, and then a third. Along the way, the Nord renewed her starlight spell. It normally lasted for roughly a minute before expiring. When left to its own devices, luck had a way of putting the moment of expiration in the middle of a fight.

"I'm surprised," Ydris' voice said behind her.

"Hmm?"

"These stairs. I would have expected them to have a trap on them somewhere. Perhaps a swinging ram to knock someone down from the corner, or…"

Sirese laughed lightly. "Are you really that afraid of falling down these stairs?"

"Mainly because I'd land on you."

"Gods forbid."

After the third corner, the stairs went down to a small, bare antechamber, with a pair of large iron doors on the far wall. And unlike the ones at the top of the ruin, these were perfectly intact. Not particularly decorated with anything, just the usual engraved scrollwork, but they might have counted as their own noteworthy find.

The handles on the doors were two great big iron loops, set vertically at waist height. Sirese tossed her axe up to catch it by the haft, then walked up to the doors—and waited.

Ydris appeared at her left side a moment later, his own axe in hand. They both reached for the door handles, and simultaneously pulled each one open.

This room was different. A spacious, eight-sided atrium, all built around a thick iron-shod pillar running from floor to ceiling. A small, empty stone table sat on the floor in front of the pillar, almost like an altar. But that was all Sirese could see. The radius of her light spell stopped very short of the far walls. For an open structure deep underground in a sinking swamp, they seemed surprisingly untouched.

And they were lined with shelves for more draugr.

"Split," Sirese said.

"By your will, my Thane," Ydris replied.

With that, Sirese hefted her weapon, and ran straight at the nearest shelves on the right.

What ensued was a frenzied, frantic struggle to move and strike with lightning efficiency. These draugr were all starting out in their shelves, and when they were in their shelves, they couldn't fight. Sirese ran up to them just as they began to awaken, and with one brutal chop after another, cut each of them right back down. She could hear Ydris doing the same, on the far side of the room.

Soon, she was facing draugr who were already out on their feet. But it didn't slow her down. Their attacks didn't even matter to her. She let them strike her armor, ignored it, kept going, lethal blow after lethal blow after lethal blow, draugr coming before her in a nightmarish blur of skeletal faces, with her axe ready to meet them every time. At this rate, she'd be able to—

" _Fus, RO DAH!_ "

An unearthly rumble swept through the room. There was a huge wave of bluish magical energy coming right at her. But the instant she heard the guttural sound of the 'fus', Sirese had already put up a ward spell. The shout's force simply broke over her harmlessly.

It was a draugr, of course. With that voice, it had to be. This one was wearing some elaborate iron armor, and carrying a fearsome battle-axe. It stood with all its fallen allies around it. The lord of the crypt, no doubt.

And Ydris was still busy. This was a bit uncomfortable.

Sirese and the draugr began walking towards one another at the same pace. She raised her axe, the draugr raised its own. Armor or no, that battle-axe was going to break bones if it hit her.

And then, right as Sirese came within range of the longer weapon, she threw her axe straight into the draugr's exposed face. Its attack fell dead with the rest of it.

One unexpected move. That was all it had taken. Such was the nature of battle.

By the time she was ready to retrieve her weapon from the armored corpse, Ydris was already finishing off the last few draugr on the other side. And that made her realize something—this room was a dead end. The far wall from the entrance had nothing on it but more shelves.

"Ydris," she said, while renewing her light spell again.

Her housecarl was in the middle of kicking the last undead body off of his axe blade. He turned and looked at her before he was even done. "You all right?"

"Yes, the shout wasn't a problem," Sirese nodded. "I feel like I expected this ruin to be bigger."

"Well, not all tombs are the size of cities. Some are the size of tombs." Ydris walked over to her slowly, looking around the room as he did. His eyes focused on something on the floor. "You forgot your axe, by the way."

"Ah, right." How had she forgotten to retrieve that thing? This was embarrassing. She must have gotten distracted with how pretty Ydris was.

The axe was still embedded deeply in the draugr lord's skull. Sirese planted one foot on the side of its face, and wrenched the axe head free with one good tug. And she was all ready to move on, in the middle of stepping away, when she hesitated in place, and gave another look at the undead creature's messily-cloven visage.

The undead _man's_ visage, rather. This was definitely a man. Or he had been, once. And Sirese usually didn't stop to think about that, but perhaps the shout had gotten her wondering.

She asked idly, "Really makes you think, doesn't it?"

Ydris came up beside her, and looked down where she was looking. "Eh?"

"This was no common servant, this fellow here. He was a Tongue. Must have been a great warrior, in life. Now look at him." Sirese nudged the draugr's helmeted head with her toe. It turned away from her a little. "It's sad, isn't it? For a good warrior to end up like this. No more than another mangled undead corpse. Not much of a legacy."

"Mmm, I don't know about that. You really think this part is what matters?" Ydris paused. His breath was still labored from the force of the fight. But this was what they did—they fought through hostile places, and studied what was left. "A lot of warriors end up as mangled corpses, after all. Doesn't diminish who they were in life."

"Perhaps there were people who cared about this man. But I bet a fair few of them are on the floor with him now. All mere mangled corpses, just like he is. No one is going to know him as anything else."

As she spoke, Sirese began circling around the room slowly, examining it for more details. It wouldn't do for them to lose their alertness to a bit of contemplation.

"Well, that's not so bad," Ydris replied from behind her. "Is it? It's not like we only amount to what people remember of us. Or… or even what mark we make on the world. This Tongue fellow of yours had a soul of his own."

"Yes, I'm sure," Sirese murmured absently. She was already focusing on something else. The stone table in front of the column. At first sight, she'd thought it was empty, but there was something on it after all. A simple square of iron plate, eight inches or so to a side, flat in the middle of the table's surface. The edge opposite the column had a single knob of metal on top, like a handle.

A lid. The table had a lid on it.

On the way over, the Nord raised a hand and renewed her light spell again. She likely didn't have to yet, but it was a habit.

Up close, she could very clearly see that the iron square was connected to the table by a pair of bolted-in hinges. It looked very heavy. But strangely, there was no visible lock of any sort on it. She could have just taken hold of the metal knob and opened the lid in this instant.

"That's the most obvious trap I've seen in my life," Ydris said from beside her.

"Yes, it is," Sirese nodded. "Come on, let's move back."

She didn't try again until they'd both retreated all the way to the antechamber. It was a simple process. Just a brief flash of telekinesis, and the lid flipped upwards and revealed its plain metal underside. It came to a rest just past straight up.

Nothing else happened.

Yet this was far from over with. Something was waiting underneath the lid. It looked metallic, much brighter than the lid itself, but from here it was hard to see.

"Wait here, Ydris." Sirese murmured.

"As you wish," her housecarl nodded. That was a relief. She'd half expected him to try citing the whole sword-and-shield thing on her.

The metallic object turned out to be a handle. She'd seen dozens like it in Nord ruins. It was a simple twist bar, set in a recess in a small sculpted dome. To activate it, all she had to do was pull the bar out far enough to turn it, and then do so. Not very interesting at all.

Except that this one's assembly—handle and dome both—were made of Dwemer metal.

If this had some special significance, it was lost on Sirese. All she knew was that this was one of those moments where her best choice was to act. She just reached in, pulled the handle up, and gave it a good quarter turn, as far as it would go.

An instant later, a loud, metallic _thud_ shook through the floor. Some dust and dirt floated down from the walls. Then a low, grinding noise began, like a hundred gears turning in chorus, far below, out of sight—and the great iron column began to split open.

It was like watching a flower bloom, but one that started out as a stem instead of a bud. The column's solid casing came apart into eight sections, one facing each wall of the room, and the sections began to fold down into themselves, coming away from the ceiling, spreading outwards in a seamless motion of interlinked machinery. And as it opened up, a brilliant, bluish light began to leak out from within, throwing strange patterns on the walls, growing brighter by the second.

Sirese had never heard of a Nord tomb with anything like this inside. How had it even been built? It made no sense.

As the iron shell peeled steadily away, its contents became quickly visible. A beam of solid white light was running from floor to ceiling, trapped between two glowing green lenses—and right in its center, some ten feet up in the air, was an orb of a thousand blinding colors.

The instant Sirese laid eyes on it, a jolt of pain shot through her head. She gasped involuntarily, turning her head, squeezing her eyes shut, trying to clear her thoughts—what _was_ this? How had this happened?

Something had changed when she looked at the orb. She'd realized something. This was no treasure for them to bring home. That much, she knew already. They had to forget they'd ever found this. It wasn't just dangerous—it was impossible to know, to understand, to even grasp in the slightest. Whatever this was, it had to stay put.

"Well," she began to say, turning back around to look at Ydris.

And she turned just in time to see a blade draw across his throat. He fell to the floor in a shower of glimmering blood.

Everything stopped.

There was no time to think. No time to feel, no time to react. The threat was coming towards her. This was what she had trained for her whole life. Her instincts told her to fight, and she obeyed.

A figure was stepping over the steel-armored form. It wasn't the figure of a normal living thing. It was an inhuman creature, featureless, made of sleek black skin, with golden lines running over in strange patterns. In its hand was a sword, made of the same golden substance, dripping red with blood—

She knew the golden substance. Of course she did. It was more Dwemer metal.

The figure was upon her in an instant. It bounded forward and leapt through the air, and a moment later, a foot slammed into her abdomen with the force of a battering ram.

It was an impossible impact. She felt the breath leave her lungs, felt herself go off her feet, felt a hard edge strike the back of her helmet—the edge of the stone table—she was seeing stars, but she raised her axe just in time to parry the killing blow of the sword.

Another strike came in. She raised her arm, made it bounce off her bracer. Rolled sideways, came up onto her feet with a sweeping parry, deflected the sword again. This creature was fast. So fast. But she had an axe that could cleave through bone. All she needed was the chance.

And the creature wasn't going to give it to her. So she would have to take it. The next time the sword came in, she stepped aside and knocked the blade away with her arm. There was a split second, just a tiny split second, where the creature's neck was exposed. She swung her axe in with all of her strength.

Her swing stopped short.

The creature had grabbed her by the wrist. Its grip was crushing, painfully crushing, as it slowly twisted her arm away. Sirese could only stare in shock at this creature. At its featureless blank face.

It didn't even have eyes. How could it see without eyes?

The sword plunged into the side of her neck, downward, through the gap below her helmet. She felt the sharpness pierce her skin, right through her throat, right into her body. She couldn't breathe, the pain stopped her all the way through. The blade pulled messily away a moment later. There was so much wetness. So much.

She almost forgot to think of home.


	2. The Newcomer

Middas, 4:32 PM, 6th of Last Seed, 1E 173

Tvalistead

Sometimes, Emund liked to imagine that the logs he chopped all day were actually skulls.

It wasn't like he was angry about anything. Not like he wished he could really lay into anyone. But what kind of Nord didn't care for the greatness of battle? Swinging big metal weapons just ran in the blood. He didn't have to want violence to appreciate that.

The afternoon had worn on and on, and he'd been working for long enough that his muscles were all burning furiously. Thinking about things like deadly combat just made it all easier. He almost kind of looked forward to it. It was just him, his axe, and his target.

And sure, he was just chopping firewood by the sawpit. But every time he brought his axe down on one of the logs, and felt it splitting open under the impact, he was Ysgramor. His axe was the legendary Wuuthrad, and he was slaying the evil pale elves that haunted these lands.

Those elves were gone already, of course. But still, it was fun to think about.

In any case, he was basically done with this for the day. Emund brought his axe down with a sharp breath out, and split the last log half into two neat quarters. Then he pried the axe back up, laid it on the table nearby, and tossed the wood pieces into the cart with the rest. This was only one part of his day's work. And going by where the sun was in the sky, the rest would be due soon enough.

If only he could lose himself in some glorious backdrop for serving drinks. Because that was what he did most of the time, working in an inn. Maybe if he could imagine he was doing it in Jorrvaskr. … Probably not.

He took hold of the cart in both hands, and pushed it out into the middle of the road. No more being Ysgramor today.

This was his home. The place of his birth, the place where he'd grown up. To the left were the towering slopes of Eldersblood Peak, where the road led up to a twisting underground pass. To the right was a small wooden bridge over the Tvali River, leading to the endless expanse of Whiterun Hold's grassy plains. He could see the Throat of the World from here, just a faint silhouette on the southeastern horizon.

But here, running along the road from mountainside to bridge, was the village of Tvalistead. It was humble, by some standards—just a couple rows of good Nord buildings, homesteads mostly, with their fields and outbuildings beyond. And being a good unified village, they also had a single trader, a single inn, and a big covered watermill on the river. This was his home. He couldn't help but be a little proud of it.

Most of it was old, maybe a hundred years old, maybe more. The mill, though, hadn't even been there when Emund had been born, and that was only sixteen years past. High King Harald, all the way over in Winterhold, had provided it for them. Something about giving the Nords stronger roots in the land. Emund just heard stories from the older villagers sometimes, about how they'd had to grind all their grain by hand once. Must've eaten up a lot of their time.

Of course, the mill was only for grain. It wasn't a sawmill. So they had this nice sawpit, and sometimes some lumber would come through, and here was their firewood. And here was Emund, carrying his daily share of firewood off to the Whitefeather Inn.

It was a bit of a walk. The inn was all the way up at the north end of the village, the sawpit was just by the mill at the south end, and Emund was pushing along a ton of wood before him. And this wasn't even a very small village. A good hundred or so people lived here. He had a lot to walk by.

Today was a quiet afternoon, just like always. A few of the villagers were on the road—he knew them all by name, they were nice folk—but they were no more hurried than he was.

At least, that was what he was thinking, until he heard a shouting voice up ahead: "NOT A CHANCE!"

Emund sped up to a brisk walking pace. He wasn't about to ditch the cart over someone raising their voice, but he wanted to see this.

The voice had been from the right, up between two of the houses. And as Emund came up the road, the scene emerged right into view.

Two of the villagers were standing side by side. Emund knew these ones. Rond and Alyna. Farm hands. Brother and sister, actually, both tall in build and brown of hair. Rond was holding a stick over his head, and laughing about something.

And that was because in between them was a third person. A pale, sickly little man, very short and squat for a Nord, with a permanently hunched back. He was struggling to reach over his head with one arm, while keeping his balance with the other.

Emund knew that man as well. That would be Teed. Also known as Teed the Beetle, because he was as rigidly curved as one. Emund hadn't come up with that name.

"Come on, if you can get it back, I'll give you half a pound of silver!" Rond laughed aloud. He was holding the stick well out of Teed's reach. "I'm good for it, you know I am! Just reach up!"

"Give it—back!" Teed was grunting in exertion, reaching out and struggling to feel his way up the larger Nord's front. He looked like he was on the verge of tears.

Alyna folded her arms. She wasn't looking in Emund's direction. None of them were. "Why are you so worked up about a stick? It's hardly even good for walking."

Teed ignored her and kept reaching for the stick, grunting, "It's mine! It's mine!" But the moment he started to grasp it, Rond took a step back, and he was suddenly holding onto nothing but air. He promptly teetered forward and fell heavily on his face.

Emund winced. That was a fall, all right.

When Teed got back up—well, he didn't get back up, he just rolled onto his side—there was blood on his face. Coming from his nose, it looked like. He must've hit a rock, or something, somewhere in the dirt. But he was definitely done demanding his stick back.

"Oh, look, he messed his face up even more," Alyna chuckled. "All right, should we give him the stick? He's not doing anything."

"Well, well, hold on a second." Rond raised his free hand slowly, while Teed was still squirming around on the ground in front of him. "Shouldn't we at least help him find his feet?"

Emund sighed. He just couldn't get back to the inn in peace, could he?

He stepped away from the cart, took a few steps towards the side path, and called over, "Hey! He's hurt!"

Rond looked over his shoulder and gave Emund a perfectly indignant glare. "Don't you have someplace to be?"

Now, Emund wasn't a small person. He was fairly well-built, for his age. But Rond was ten years his elder, and he'd always been much, much bigger. And Rond was still holding a stick. Emund had his bare hands. If a fight was coming … well, he could forget about getting any more work done today.

Teed was still on the ground. He was sobbing now, just outright shedding tears, and clutching at his nose.

"He's hurt," Emund repeated. "We should get him to the apothecary."

Alyna made a show of rolling her eyes. "Don't worry, Emund, we'll look after him, all right? … Don't make this into some big thing, Emund."

"Here, I'll get him out of here for you," the younger Nord said, before starting down the path towards the three of them.

He barely had time to see it coming. The moment he came close enough, Teed's stick suddenly whipped around into his sight. An instant later, it hit him right in the chest. There was a sickening snapping sound, and Emund felt a huge, horrible stinging pain strike into his ribs. Just as quickly as he'd come in, he landed heavily on the ground, right on his rear end.

Teed's stick had broken in two. The upper half was in Emund's lap. Without even thinking, he grabbed it and held it up, like a dagger, with the splintered end forward, as he started pushing himself to his feet.

Rond was still standing over him with the other half. This was going to hurt.

"All right, all right, we're done," Alyna said quickly. "Let us be off, Rond. I don't want to leave the whole village in flames behind us."

Her brother grunted in annoyance, then threw the broken half of the stick in Teed's direction. "Let's get out of here," he muttered.

And with that, the pair of siblings went right on out into the street, leaving two soundly defeated Nords in their wake.

Emund dropped his half of the stick as he pulled himself upright. "Teed," he began to say, "do you need any—"

"Get outta here," Teed spat, from where he was on the ground. "Go."

He didn't have to be told twice. He hurried right back to his cart and went on like normal.

That fall had gotten his trousers a bit dirty. It didn't really matter, because he had to change clothes for his evening's work. But as Emund went back to carrying his firewood along, he couldn't help but feel like he deserved the dirt right now. What had he been thinking, trying to step in like that? Teed hadn't even wanted him to do it. He just couldn't help himself.

And neither could Rond, apparently. Food for thought.

The Whitefeather Inn was just up ahead. And it looked like Picker was out on the porch. That put a smile on Emund's face. He sped up, again, and strode his way up the rest of the road.

When he got to the inn, he set the cart by the side of the building, then came back around to the front. Picker was still lounging where she'd been before. That was normal. Picker was a dog. She spent a fair bit of time on this porch.

As Emund climbed the steps, Picker came right up to him, tongue lolling out. There was no passing this up. The next thing Emund knew, he was sitting on the edge of the porch, petting the shaggy gray fur down the dog's head and neck.

After about three seconds of that, Picker promptly rolled over onto her back and stretched out for more. She just wasn't going to let him leave, by the look of it. And that was just fine.

He had no idea how much time he spent, just petting and scratching over the inn's dog. For an outdoors one, she was very well-groomed. Her fur was so soft to the touch. Right now, after all that business a minute ago, nothing could've been more welcome.

At some point, Emund realized he was going to have to get inside. Reluctantly, he pushed himself back upright, and then abruptly hurried in through the front door before Picker could look at him with her doggy eyes anymore.

Inside the inn, everything was quite a bit dimmer. He had to take a second to let his eyes adjust. This central room was just like that of any inn. A single, central open area, with a counter at one end, tables all around the edges, and a hearth in the middle of it all, blazing away with the comforting warmth of firelight. A couple guests were at the tables right now, but it was otherwise quiet.

From the counter, a familiar voice snapped, "Emund!"

Maybe not entirely quiet, then.

All the same, Emund stepped over as quickly as he could. "I brought the firewood, father."

His father was a great beast of a man, it had to be said. Practically twice the size of a regular man, with graying blond hair and a big full beard—honestly, Emund didn't know what his father was doing running an inn. He could've been out there fighting the elves, and turning much more of a profit for it. But here they were, and the great innkeeper's wrath had only one target.

"Took you long enough," his father growled. "I've had to hold the place down without you. And I'm needed over in the Trader. We have our mead coming in. There's no time to wait. And why are you so unkempt?"

Perhaps this wasn't the best time to mention the incident with Teed. Emund was going to just skip over that question for now.

"Well, I got it all—" He began to say more, but at that moment, he noticed something odd. The far door on the left was closed. They only closed the doors in here when the rooms were occupied. But as of this morning, all of the rooms had been vacant. "Who, uh… who's in there?"

His father glanced where he was looking, then shrugged. "No one," he said, after a moment's pause. "Listen, I'm going to head out now. Try not to burn the place down while I'm gone, all right? … And change into something presentable."

"Yes, father," Emund nodded glumly. Yes, he knew what to do already. He didn't need it told to him again. But it was definitely better that he just listen anyway.

While his father waited, Emund headed down the stairs behind the counter, down to the cellar. That was where his own living space was.

The cellar was a cool, dry, actually rather pleasant space, especially with sunlight streaming in through the little frosted windows up by the ceiling. When one ignored the barrels and boxes everywhere, it was almost sort of perfect for living in quietly. But Emund's father was still waiting for him, so this was no time to relax. He briefly washed off in the basin, threw on some fresh clothes, and headed back upstairs as quick as he could.

By the time he did, his father was actually already gone. Must've really wanted that mead. No matter. The few guests in here obviously didn't care. Emund leaned his elbows heavily on the counter, and waited.

No one really came into the inn at this time of day. At most, he might expect to give the few guests in here a refill or two on their drinks. Whatever business his father was taking care of, it couldn't possibly last until anything interesting would happen.

That was what he was thinking, when the door swung open and a man-at-arms walked in.

The man was clad in light hide armor, reinforced with metal plates on the shoulders and wrists. On his back, he was wearing a dark canvas haversack, crammed full of what looked like rather heavy items. His head was all hidden under a horned helmet that cast his face in shadow. And he had a sword hanging from his belt, in a neat leather scabbard. It all looked like something out of a picture.

But the picture was real. The man-at-arms proceeded to pull off his helmet, shake out a head of long gray hair, and walk right up to the counter. Up close, with his face visible, he somehow looked even scarier.

Emund was rooted to the spot. He didn't even know what to say. Sure, he'd seen men like this in passing before, but right here in the inn? Since when did that happen?

The man opened his mouth, took a breath in … and asked in a perfectly polite and refined voice, "May I rent a room for the night, please?"

A couple seconds went by. Was he supposed to be saying something? He was, wasn't he? … Yes, he was. He worked here. He knew how to do this. "Uh, uhh, yes! Yes, you may. One half-mark, it's yours for the day."

"A half-mark for one night in an inn?" The man raised his eyebrows briefly, but then shrugged, and reached into his belt pouch. "I trust I'm not being robbed right now."

Emund had no idea what was going on. He just kept talking. That seemed like a wise idea. "No, no sir, not at all. We're not cheap, but there's a reason—you see, Whitefeather Inn? On the sign out front?"

"I was, uh… distracted by the dog," the man mumbled.

"Well—" Despite it all, Emund couldn't help but laugh a little. "Picker's sweet, isn't she? Ah… All of our beds are padded with feathers. Not straw. And it's like that for the rest of what we offer. Tvalistead, it, ahh, it may not be the largest village, but you—"

"All right, all right, I get the idea. Here." The man deftly flipped a single silver coin out over his hand, and stamped it down against the counter under his thumb. "My name is Gelther, if you need to write it down."

Emund collected the coin and placed it in a bin under the counter. He'd move it to their strongbox later. Honestly, he was just trying to go by sheer routine right now. He still had no idea what was going on. "All right, Gelther, uh… is… is everything all right? We usually don't have, uh…"

"Men coming in with big scary armor on?" Gelther beamed mirthfully at him.

"… Yes, that."

"Well, don't worry about it. Just show me where I can drop off my things. My legs are right about done for the day."

"All right, well, we have a vacant room right this way." Emund stepped out from behind the counter, beckoned for his new guest to follow, and started over towards the closed door on the left. That room _was_ vacant, after all.

Then, on the way over, he had the chance to think about what the man had just said. He hesitated in place for a moment.

"… Did… you walk all the way here?"

"I spent all my money on the armor and I couldn't afford a horse afterward," Gelther nodded.

"Right. I see." At that moment, Emund opened the door.

The room wasn't vacant.

Someone was sitting on the bed. A man, it looked like. He was just sitting there, and… Emund had definitely never seen him before.

The man looked up at them in surprise. "Eh?"

"Oh! I'm sorry. I … thought this room was vacant. Huh." And with that, just as quickly as he'd opened it, Emund shut the door again. Then he leaned back and looked over at Gelther. "So, uh, next room over?"

Gelther raised his eyebrows in amusement. "Any other surprise guests?"

"No, no, that…" Emund laughed under his breath as he headed over to the next door. "I have no idea who that was. My father must've let him in and forgotten about it, or… something. I don't know."

"Well—" Gelther just about stormed past into the open doorway, and shrugged his haversack off in the middle of the room. It landed on the stone floor with a big thud. He immediately let out a loud groan of relief, and sat down on the bed to start taking off his boots. "That's all, thank you," he said, as a sort of an afterthought.

As Emund closed the door, he politely replied, "My father or I will be outside if you need anything." And that was that. Door closed, room filled.

He stepped back towards the counter, and looked around the room. Three doors closed—one was the front door, so two guest doors closed. That was two rooms filled.

Two rooms filled. One room filled? That wasn't adding up. Emund frowned. He was going to give himself a headache if he kept thinking about this.

Maybe someone else would need his help now. He'd just wait here until they did.


	3. Man-at-Arms

Turdas, 2:22 PM, 7th of Last Seed, 1E 173

Tvalistead

Long ago, the first Atmorans to settle Skyrim had faced a brutal and unforgiving wilderness, with only themselves to turn to for help. This icy land was host to the greatest and most terrible beasts in all Tamriel. The Atmorans contended with these creatures for food, for shelter, for their very lives. And over the centuries, the one myth had emerged—the man versus the wild.

It was every Nord's dream to win that battle. Was Emund an exception? Far from it. He was a champion of his ancestors. It was his turn to carry on the unending battle with the forces of nature. He took the mantle gladly, no matter the cost. No matter the danger.

Which led him to his present state of chaos.

Emund coughed and spluttered, squeezing his eyes shut. It was in his face. The choking spray was everywhere. It was all he could do to hold on. He was going to drown, he was going to lose his stomach, he was going to collapse. He couldn't do this.

Picker wasn't even his dog. Why was he the one who had to give her baths?

Actually, that question sort of answered itself.

He'd been here for probably ten minutes, out behind the inn, kneeling over a big tub of warm soapy water, with Picker standing inside. And by standing, he meant, thrashing every which way whenever he tried to touch her. Normal petting was the best thing ever, but for some reason, trying to scrub the mud from her coat was practically the same as attempted murder.

Which made Emund a pretty lousy murderer, by the looks of it. He'd stripped his shirt off in advance, but he sort of regretted keeping his trousers on too. His whole front was soaked. But a job was a job, so he kept on all the same.

As he continued, a deep voice asked from behind, "Having trouble?"

"No, it's fine," Emund said on reflex. What a terrible liar he was.

Then he turned around to look at the voice's source. It was Gelther, the man-at-arms who'd come in the night before. He was standing there in the back doorway, leaning on the wall, his arms folded.

"Hello," Emund added.

Gelther laughed aloud. "Dear gods, she looks like a half-starved skeever."

Picker peered up irately at her new company, as though offended by the comparison. It wasn't even wrong. She had such a long coat, her whole shape changed when she was wet.

"Aye, well, I'm not done yet," Emund muttered, as he returned to scrubbing the coat out. Or trying to, anyway. "If you needed me to do anything for you, uh…"

The older Nord laughed again as he spoke. "Actually, I believe I'm content to watch."

And that was fair, sort of. He was a paying customer, after all. There was no reason for him not to stand there and watch Emund struggle to do basic things in life.

It probably wasn't worth looking back at him again right then. This was too embarrassing.

"You look excellent without the shirt, by the way," Gelther remarked, after a few seconds.

Emund really was glad he was facing away. Gelther might've been entitled to watch him struggle at this task, but at least he couldn't see Emund flushing.

The rest of the bath went predictably. Picker squirmed her way through the whole thing, and Emund could do nothing but try his best to get all the dirt out of her fur. And that went on for… minutes. There was just so much to do. When it was finally done, or something resembling done, he drained the tub empty with a spigot, used some extra water to rinse her off, and then lifted her bodily out and into a waiting towel.

"I must say," Gelther said, breaking the silence once again, "it's not very often I see a dog so well-cared for. Especially an outdoors sort. Walking flea beds, the lot of them."

Emund shook his head quickly as he dried Picker off. "Oh, no, that would never do. We can't exactly claim a good service if we have fleas about. Probably wouldn't have a dog at all, except it's good for business."

"Is that what she's here for?" The Nord man paused. "… Makes sense. Worked on me, even. But honestly, you've got the only inn in the damn village, I wasn't about to sleep on someone's porch."

"How long are you staying?"

"Not sure yet. As long as I need to. I'm sure I can afford it. If not, perhaps I could work for the extra pay."

Emund laughed sharply. The half-wet dog stiffened for a moment beneath his hands, from the noise. "Hah! … sorry, Picker. Um… No. No, I don't get paid nearly as much as you pay my father. And I need that pay as it is."

"Don't you get food and lodging for free?"

"I had to save up for two months just to get my new shoes. I—" His sentence was interrupted by a sudden tug on the towel. Picker had grabbed one end of it in her teeth, and was trying to pull it away. Unfortunately, Emund had barely been holding on, and the towel promptly fell and landed in the grass.

Except for the end of it that was still in Picker's mouth. The spiky-furred dog was staring up at him, tail wagging, with the drab cloth hanging out the side of her jaws.

"Pick it up," Gelther said, expectantly.

"Aye, I know what she's saying," Emund muttered, before picking the other end back up. The dog immediately jerked back and started trying to tug the towel away.

Obviously, he wasn't about to let go this time. He pushed himself up to his feet and pulled back obligingly on the towel. Picker was staring up at him, wide-eyed, thrashing back and forth trying to tug it away. A couple times, she glanced over at Gelther, as though hoping the strange gray-haired man would intervene on her behalf.

Fortunately, Emund was quite a bit stronger than a dog, so he wasn't in danger of losing the towel. He still wasn't pleased. "You realize, the second I let her go, she's just going to go to the river and muddy herself on the bank again."

"I don't know why it's called the Whitefeather Inn," Gelther said. "You should call it the Grayfur Inn, that's the real reason to come here."

Emund snorted. "There are thousands of dogs across Harald's domain. This is one."

"She does look sweet, though."

"Aye, doesn't she."

Eventually, a bird chirping nearby got Picker's attention, and she dropped the towel to go bounding off in its direction. Emund tossed the towel over the lip of the tub, and turned to Gelther, who was still right there by the door. "How long are you planning on being in town?"

"As long as I need to be," the man shrugged. "If it's not obvious, I'm a sword-for-hire. And I'm on a bounty right now. Don't worry, I won't be spilling blood in your village, it's only where I'm staying."

A sword-for-hire. That did make sense. Still, Emund frowned, and went over to retrieve his shirt where he'd draped it over the back porch railing. "I'll try not to think about that too much. I'm really not one for violence."

Gelther backed away as Emund picked up the shirt by him. "What're you planning on doing next, then?"

"Probably going and chopping some wood. I like imagining that the logs are actually the skulls of my defeated enemies."

Mercifully, the older Nord just took that one like normal. "Like whom? Those farm hands who were bothering Teed?"

Emund pulled his shirt on in one deft overhead motion. He always felt good when he could do that one smoothly. "Ahh… Wait, you know about that? How?"

"I have special powers," Gelther said flatly.

A couple seconds went by in silence. Emund stared up at him blankly. "… Well, I'm going to go chop wood now. Feel free to stay in town and, uh, use your special powers all day."

Then, to Emund's surprise, Gelther hopped down from the porch. "Mind if I come help you out? You don't have to give me your pay for it."

"Well, then why do you want to do it?"

"Because I'm bored."

That was that, then. Emund nodded in acknowledgment, and started on his way around the side of the inn, out onto the road. It wasn't a busy day. He grabbed the handcart from beside the porch on the way out.

"Clouds coming in from the west," Gelther observed as he followed along. "Think we'll get rain?"

"The farmers would be happy. It's been a while since the last rainfall."

"I have a question. And… I hope it doesn't sound foolish, but it probably sounds foolish, so, uh…"

"Go on," Emund said.

"Why do you keep your dog outside? If you're so interested in keeping her clean and presentable and so on. Wouldn't you want her where you can watch her?"

"Best not to have dogs in the same space as drunk Nords. We get those, believe it or not. People are always really taken with her when they first come by, but they're sober then. "

"But your inn is so refined and sensible."

Emund laughed aloud.

A little bit of time went by, with the two of them just walking down the road, towards the sawpit where all the wood was. Those clouds were coming in quickly. Fortunately, the sawpit was covered, but Emund wasn't looking forward to carting the firewood back through the rain.

And he'd just bathed Picker, too. Rain meant mud. Mud meant messes. Messes meant baths. Maybe he could persuade his father to do it next time.

Maybe he could become Ysgramor reborn, too.

Eventually, Emund spoke up again. "Mind if I ask you a question back?"

"No promises for the answer," Gelther replied breezily.

"Why aren't you a Companion? I thought that was what swords-for-hire, uh… _did_."

The older Nord glanced over at him with one eyebrow raised. "Where'd you hear that one, then?"

"Well, there are three real places for a fighter to work, right? Within the High King's laws, that is. The hold guards, the Crown's army, and the Companions of Whiterun. And you're obviously no guard."

"You're right, but also wrong at the same time. Those are the institutions a fighter can work for. But there's no law saying you have to work for _any_ of them. Just don't harm the innocent, and you're set." Gelther let out a low sigh. "I've been to Whiterun. Nice place. But I wouldn't want to live in any one city for so long. I'm a wanderer."

"Well, now that you say that, I miss you already," Emund grinned. But it was a bit true. He knew everyone in Tvalistead, and they knew him, and none of them considered him a friend. This, with Gelther, was a rare happening.

Those clouds were certainly coming in quickly.

"I've heard stories," he said, as long as he was thinking about that. "About the Tongues. That they can control the skies. Making storms come and leave as they please."

"Well, I'm not a Tongue, if that's what you were wondering," Gelther murmured, looking unhappily at the sky above. "I'm not even a mage. But we all have our talents."

A drop of wetness splashed off Emund's nose.

"We'd better hurry," he said quickly, before starting on a very brisk walk for the sawpit.

This was where Tvalistead got all of its wood supply from. The foresters would go and find good trees to chop, and they'd bring back the logs to saw through, and it was up to the townsfolk to cut the pieces to the exact sizes they needed. Basically, that all meant that Emund didn't need to go inside the pit. But he'd still go nearby.

It was a spacious, cleverly made thing, with a long, deep recess in the ground, walled and floored with loose stone so rainwater could soak into the earth. A wooden platform ran above it for the sawing to take place, and a steep, thatched roof stood above that. There weren't really proper walls to it, let alone a door. Just two big wooden rectangular frames laid against each other, covered in straw, all the way down to the ground. It looked sort of like a big tent.

And the ready-to-use wood was all collected in a pile near the entrance. The way this worked, everyone could use as much wood as they needed, but they paid the foresters every month for the right to use it. That meant that unlike at a real shop, the sawpit was usually silent when Emund came by.

But today, it wasn't.

The man wasn't actually chopping wood. He was sitting still on the edge of the woodpile, just by where the axe was laid on its block. Either he'd fallen asleep, or he'd been simply waiting. A tall, strong, brown-haired man, wearing commoner's clothes. All too familiar.

Gelther leaned in towards Emund and said quietly, "You know this fellow?"

"Surprised you don't," Emund replied, before letting go of the cart and raising his voice to call out in greeting. "Good afternoon, Rond!"

But it wasn't actually good. There was no real reason for Rond to be in town like this, as opposed to out on his farm. Especially not if he was here without his sister. She always kept him in some sort of check. By himself, he didn't have to answer to anyone.

The brown-haired man pushed himself slowly to his feet, and gave Emund a scowling look over. "Why're your trousers all wet? Forget how to use the privy?"

Right. Because Emund's shirt was dry, and his trousers weren't. He laughed lightly, even though this wasn't mirthful at all. "I was washing the dog," he said. This wasn't worth sparring over. He was just going to be sincere about it. "Took off my shirt for it. You know, so it wouldn't get wet too. What about you, though? What're you doing here?"

He and Gelther were still walking up closer to the sawpit. Pretty soon, they'd be walking right up into Rond's reach.

"Who's this, then?" Rond pointed in Gelther's direction. "New sweetheart of yours?"

Emund scratched the back of his neck. "Uh…"

"Ahh, forget I said that. You've never had a sweetheart, my mistake."

Well, that answered what the man was doing here. He was bored and looking to pick a fight. Good for him.

Gelther pointed back at him in kind. "Who _is_ this lout?"

"Well, he lives here, his name is Rond," Emund began to say.

"Aye, I heard before. No matter." Gelther stopped about ten feet away, just under the cover of the roof. Emund did the same.

A couple seconds went by in tense silence. The rain was starting to drizzle down behind them.

Emund said, "We're just here to chop some wood, Rond. You can sit and watch if you like."

"Ha ha, you're very funny," the man growled. "I was hoping you'd come by. See, you got in my way yesterday. Ruined a perfectly good bit of fun. Even got my sister upset at me. I wanted to thank you for that."

To thank him. Yes, that was a gracious way of putting it. Even if Rond had been choosing his words more carefully, the anger was plain as day on his face anyway. The blind, vicious, entitled anger that came with a bully having his habits questioned. There wasn't any real reasoning with it.

And Emund was pretty sure he could smell some drink on the man's breath. That wasn't going to help either.

But still, he stayed as calm as he could. He didn't have to get into a fight today. Not today. "You really want to do this right now? It's two against one."

Rond looked away from him, towards Gelther. "You staying in Tvalistead long, old man?"

"Long as I need to," the older Nord shrugged.

Rond looked back at Emund with a smirk. He was actually smirking. How worked up _was_ he, right now? Had he just been sitting here daydreaming about beating Emund into the ground? "Your friend's not going to be here forever, whelp. You'd best remember that."

Emund rubbed his eyes. His heart was quickening. He didn't appreciate that at all. His body was ready for a fight even before the rest of him. "Rond, why are you doing this? Are you really this bored? All you ever want to do is bother people."

"Shut up," Rond spat, before stepping in with his fists raised.

Gelther was on him like lightning. He grabbed one of Rond's wrists mid-punch, then spun outward and cracked an elbow into the side of the man's head. It all happened so fast, Emund had to stop and figure it out after it was done.

Rond crumpled down onto his knees, groaning loudly, holding his head with one hand. The other arm was still in Gelther's grip.

"Come on. You're fine, get up." The older Nord was tugging on him, pulling him back to his feet. "You're fine."

Emund decided he was just going to stand back and watch this.

The moment Rond had gotten back up onto his feet, Gelther bent down and picked him right up off the ground, putting Rond's trunk over his shoulder… only to carry him forward five paces, and drop him right back down. Right into the sawpit.

Emund couldn't even see it, from here. He just heard all the thudding and tumbling and grunting as Rond rolled down the sloped sawpit wall. All those loose stones must've been real fun to smack into.

Admittedly, he could've had more sympathy right now. But he didn't.

The rain was picking up to a shower. Gelther turned and glanced out at it, then looked at the woodpile. "Well, guess I'd best get chopping."

"You?" Emund raised his eyebrows. "When you said you wanted to help, I thought you…"

"We can take turns. My blood's running hot now, I might as well." Gelther sighed and grinned at him for a moment, and then started on his way over to the axe. "You want to go fetch the cart?"

That was a good observation. Emund _had_ left the cart out in the rain. He went and dragged it in under the roof as quickly as he could. His head and shoulders got pelted with cold raindrops on the way.

Gelther was unbuckling his armor and setting it on the woodpile. Just the stuff on his torso and arms, nothing else. He finished by grabbing his undershirt by the hem and pulling it up off over his head. Underneath was a broad, muscled body of pale Nord skin, marked here and there with some decades' worth of scars, plus a fair bit of gray hair on the chest.

Emund put his hands on his hips. "Well… I see what you meant earlier about watching."

Meanwhile, Rond was just moaning unintelligibly at the bottom of the pit. That wasn't worth attention at this point.

"Aye," Gelther nodded as he picked up the axe in one hand. "All in a day's work. Enjoy."


	4. Fortune and Misfortune

Fredas, 7:39 AM, 8th of Last Seed, 1E 173

Tvalistead

Emund wished so many people didn't need his help. It was like this every morning. He had to get out of bed an hour before everyone else, before the sun even came up. The routine was always the same. Furnish the hearth, clean the tables, prepare the breakfast, manage the letters—oh, and do absolutely anything that anyone asked him to do. That last one was the real killer. His father ran the important things, and that left him to deal with everyone's whims.

Which led to where he was right now: bursting in through the doors of the inn, carrying a bottle of juniper mead in his hand. Until a couple minutes ago, he hadn't even known that this existed. But he walked right in, closed the door with his heel, and set the bottle down on the near-left table like it was any other drink he'd served.

"Is this what you wanted, ma'am?"

The guest at the table eyed the bottle warily. She was a particularly well-dressed traveler. An older woman, gray of hair, wearing fancy gold-trimmed robes. A paying customer, in other words. Not that that made her any easier to put up with. She'd been complaining about her breakfast since before it'd even been served.

"We shall see," she said primly. "I suppose I should count my blessings that a place such as this would carry any finer beverages in stock at all."

Any finer beverages? Where had this woman had even come from? Emund couldn't believe this. The whole point of the Whitefeather Inn was to make rich travelers happy. Some people just didn't want to be satisfied with what they got.

Just as quickly as his thoughts had begun, though, they were interrupted by another voice calling out to him.

"Emund!" That was his father, at the counter. "Where have you been? I need you to clean out the—"

And then his father was interrupted too.

"Excuse me," another guest called over from across the room. "Emund? Do you have a moment for us?"

At this rate, Emund wouldn't be surprised if someone asked him to sing them a song. Just for the sake of their fun.

He wanted to go chop some more wood.

Still, he put on a smile and headed on over to the table in question. "Yes, can I help you, uh… you two?"

The guests at this table were a young man and woman, who couldn't possibly have looked any different from each other. The woman was a thickly-built sort, fairly plain in features, but with her blond hair braided back nicely, and wearing an elegant embroidered dress. The man was much slighter in build, with long dark shaggy hair and unkempt stubble, and wearing a plain drab tunic. And while the woman was smiling at him pleasantly, the man just looked bored.

Emund had seen them in here early yesterday. His father had said they were here from Winterhold, for some reason or another. But he'd never caught either of their names. At least they'd finished their breakfasts already.

"Jend and I had a question," the woman said, still smiling. "Regarding courier services…"

"Yes, we—" Emund stopped and held up a hand. "I'm sorry, what was your name again, ma'am?"

"Tsavina. I was looking to send a letter to Solitude."

Solitude. That little fortified city on the arch, up in Haafingar. That wasn't too far away, given a slight detour over Dragon Bridge. He nodded slowly. "Our rider is out on his errands right now, but if you wish to wait for him to return, he can take it to the offices in Snowhawk."

At this point, Jend spoke up. He had a low, flat way of speaking, that made it sound like his whole world was just unforgivably dull. "Is there any way we can send it faster?"

"Well…" Emund blew some air out from between his lips. "You could ask around, see if anyone is heading that way… I wouldn't trust any old trader, though. Our rider has a reputation to uphold, which is, you know…"

"More than you can say for most, yes," Tsavina nodded. "I know how that works. But if you know any other way—money's not an issue for us. You can tell because we're rooming in your inn."

She laughed out loud. Emund politely joined her. These customers, really.

Then she went on. "We're living in prosperous times, you know. A lot of fortune to go around for everyone. But it is important that I send this message, and preferably soon. If I don't, there could be a great opportunity missed—again, for everyone."

Jend snorted. "If by opportunity, you mean treasure, and by everyone, you mean Nords."

"Which we all are, yes," Tsavina said. "I'd rather not get into the details, if I can help it. The whole point of sending a letter is that only the recipient reads it."

Emund shrugged helplessly. "I'm just a worker here. I don't know how much I can do for you. But if you want to brave the mountain pass, you could always try taking it to Snowhawk yourselves."

Tsavina winced. "Well… we have to stay here for someone, too. It's an awkward situation. Hey, Jend, what if one of us stayed here, and the other went north?"

"And you're the one staying here," Jend said, as flatly as ever. "I get it."

"I'm sure you can navigate the roads perfectly well. It's… only a Skyrim mountain pass. Perfectly safe." Tsavina could have had quite a bit more conviction in her voice.

Jend asked, "What do you think my odds would be of surviving that?"

"Decent, maybe. As long as you don't find any bears on the way."

"So, zero."

"It's not the best. I suppose luck can't go in our favor all the time." Tsavina turned back to Emund. "How _are_ people able to afford your inn? Most people, that is."

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "It's not exactly raining silver around here."

Tsavina raised her eyebrows. "Not meaning any offense, but it were raining silver, I'd leave you all now to go get it."

"Even if it were raining water, I'd leave," Jend said.

Emund cleared his throat. Partly just to keep his composure. "If you'd like, I can, uh… take your dishes…"

Tsavina leaned back in her seat, away from her table setting. "Please."

With that, he began quickly stacking up the dirty dishes in one hand. He'd have to clean these later, over at the basin, after breakfast time was done with. After he'd had his own, too. Emund usually helped himself to a tiny bit of whatever he was making for the guests, but only enough to keep him going till after. His mornings were generally hungry ones.

Handling empty dishes didn't help with that. They just reminded him of what his belly was like right then.

But still, he headed on to the counter, where his father was waiting. He'd been asked to do something, hadn't he? He couldn't remember what.

As he set down the dishes, his father snapped, "Finally. Listen. If you're done pretending to care about the guests, I need you to clean—"

At that moment, the doors swung open. Emund turned around on instinct.

It was a perfect repeat of last night. The same man-at-arms was walking in. Gelther. He had his armor on and everything. Except this time, his helmet was off, and he was clutching his face with one hand.

The gray-haired Nord turned towards Emund, and lowered his hand somewhat. There was a bright red cut—a cut!—just above his eyebrow. It was dripping blood all down his face.

Emund practically jumped. "Oh, by Shor! What happened to you?"

"I was in the privy," Gelther said weakly. "Hit my head on the door. Say, does anyone here…" He stopped to clear his throat, and started again in a louder voice. "Does anyone here know any healing spells? I could use one."

This wasn't right. It didn't feel right at all. But for now, Emund just watched.

"I do," Jend called back, flatly. Without another word, he proceeded to get up, walk over around the hearth, and tap Gelther on the shoulder. There was a bright, radiant flash of magic, and the cut was gone.

Gelther felt over his face for a moment, as if in disbelief. Then he broke into a big happy smile. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," Jend replied. He was already halfway back to his seat.

Emund scratched his head. "So, uh… do you want a rag, or…?"

There was still a lot of blood on Gelther's face, after all.

"Please." The older Nord nodded eagerly. "Oh, this is a fine start to my morning. At least I don't have to ride anywhere."

Great. This was just great. Emund knew what he had to do now, but he really didn't want to. He never liked getting in anyone's face, but a man like Gelther? He would've had to be crazy to want that.

But this was too much to pass by.

Quickly, without saying anything, he turned around and headed back to the counter. Ignored his father standing there, grabbed the nearest dishcloth. Walked up to Gelther, laid it in the man's outstretched hand—and asked quietly, "Can we talk?"

Gelther frowned at him in puzzlement, but nodded and gestured to the door to his room. He wiped his face off on the way over.

Once the two of them were together in the room, Emund closed the door, and leaned his hand against it for good measure.

"I don't want to pry where I don't belong," he said, slowly, carefully. "But I do live here. And if something's going on, I'd like to know."

"Just my usual daily life," Gelther replied, without missing a beat.

Emund squinted at him. Honestly, at this point, his heart was hammering, he wanted to stop talking, but… he couldn't help himself. He just couldn't. "You don't mean to try and tell me you actually got that… gash of yours, from just hitting your head on a door? I know that door. It's not exactly, not, uh… it's not stuck through with nails or anything. Come on."

Gelther stared at him. Just stared at him, for a horrible long few seconds. Then he opened his mouth, and… sighed in resignation. Really? That was all it had taken to make him back down?

"Well, first of all," he said, "I have actually seen a man hurt himself like that on a door. But I suppose it's not a secret worth keeping. I just didn't want to scare your other guests. You know that bounty I came in here on? I satisfied at least some of it today. There was a bit of a fight."

That wasn't much of a surprise. But still, hearing the words spoken aloud, Emund still had to hold in the urge to gasp. His heartbeat picked up anyway. "A fight? With whom?"

Gelther shrugged, almost sheepishly. "My target. A couple of brigands, coming on through. I fought them outside the village, for what it's worth. I was hoping to keep trouble _out_ , not bring it in. Those two won't be bothering you, at least."

Which was the nice way of saying the men were dead. Emund couldn't help but feel a little disturbed. Sure, bloodshed was the Nord way of life, and sure, Gelther was a sword-for-hire—but his home wasn't meant to be a battlefield. Neither was the countryside immediately outside his home, for that matter.

But the Nord went on. "This might surprise you, but Skyrim's got a problem with banditry. In times of famine, we have bandits. In times of plenty, bandits. In times of war, bandits. In times of peace, bandits. Especially now. A lot of men who used to hunt the Falmer are out of work. Some of them turn to hunting Nords. I like your village in one piece. So I just did you lot a favor, and now I have a bounty to turn in."

"Fine," Emund said, after a few seconds' pause. "I won't make a fuss about it. But… if I may ask, what did you do with the, uh…"

"River."

"Right." And that did answer the question. He'd been about to end his sentence with the word 'bodies'. But Emund had clearly overstayed his welcome. This man clearly didn't need someone coming in and questioning his line of work. "I'll go now," he said. "Sorry to bother you."

"Take care," Gelther grinned.

That was Emund's cue. He opened the door and walked right back out.

The main room seemed to be about the same as before. People were still working on their breakfasts. No one had come or gone, besides himself.

"All right, what did I miss?"

"This mead is off," the older woman by the door proclaimed.

Emund ran a hand over his face and whispered, "Oh by the gods I am going to kill somebody."

"That's the spirit," Gelther murmured beside him.

"Emund!" And that was his father's voice. "For the love of Shor, get over here already!"

There wasn't much to do but obey. He hurried on over as quick as he could. "Yes, father?"

"Been asking for you all damn morning, why do you…" His father sighed and shrugged it off, pointing an idle thumb over his shoulder as he went on. "Listen. I need you to deal with that room. Go… just go, all right?"

He was pointing at the room in the far left corner. The one with the closed door. Emund wasn't sure what that was about, so he just nodded and carried on his way.

All of the guest rooms in the Whitefeather Inn were basically identical, and this one was certainly no exception. But as Emund opened the door and walked in, he could tell that this one had been changed. The bedcovers were all pushed down, there were empty dishes on the end table—someone had been rooming here.

Who had been rooming here? He honestly couldn't remember.

Still, he had a job to do. So he took the dishes back out to the counter, dropped those off, came back, and… tried to remember what he was doing. This was strange. This was giving him a headache.

The sheets definitely needed changing. And he'd have to do something about that. There was also the trunk opposite the bed, every room had one of those, but… what was this feeling he was having? Emund wasn't sure whether to be afraid or just frustrated. He wanted to know something, wanted to remember something, and he had no idea what.

He pulled the sheets off the bed, one after another, leaving them in a pile on the floor. The pillowcase went on, too. This was bewildering.

What was he doing?

After another moment's thought, Emund turned around, got down on his knees, and used his master key to unlock the trunk. If nobody was rooming here anymore, he had to make sure it was empty. So he unlocked it, and slowly, carefully pulled the lid open to look inside.

There was an assortment of items at the bottom. Travel things. Bundled clothing, a pair of boots, a sheathed dagger. And a gray thing. He had no idea what he was looking at.

He picked up the gray thing, and let it hang between his hands.

It looked sort of like a mask, or a hood, with a few pieces of thin gray cloth held together with neat rows of stitching. There were holes for the eyes, set in a sort of constant heavy-browed scowl. And running between them, from the top of the head all the way down to the bottom of the nose, where the mask ended, was a different piece of cloth. It had markings on it. Deep blue markings.

That was all he understood of it. It was a mask. And some part of him wanted to drop it, close the trunk, get out of here, pretend he'd never seen it. This was wrong. His breath was quickening, the air felt cold, this was all wrong. It was wrong, and he couldn't remember why.

He'd seen something in here. What had he seen? Something had happened in here. But it had meant nothing, it had gone without notice, it was locked in the past.

And holding this mask, he knew—just as unexplainably as he knew something had happened here—he knew it had answers. If it was speaking to him, he didn't hear its voice.

Here he was, kneeling here in this room, and he was trapped. There was no door. There was no air. There was nothing, except for the suffocating feeling that he'd forgotten something terrible.

"Fine," he replied aloud. "I'll do it."

Emund turned the mask around in his hands, and pulled it on over his head.


	5. The End of a Life

Regret.

All he could feel was regret.

He was on the floor, his back wedged against the wall. Everything was a mystery. He didn't know how much time had passed, or what had even happened. He was trying to think, but all he could feel was this horrid overwhelm of regret.

He'd done something, hadn't he? He'd done some bad thing, and gotten himself into this. The answer was right on his face.

Because the mask was on his face. He could feel the mask on him still. It was so soft and smooth. But he hated it more than anything. He never should have put it on.

Now he couldn't move. His heart raced with fear, his chest rose and fell with labored breaths, but he couldn't move. He wasn't alone in here, he knew it. He couldn't move, couldn't even move his eyes, but there was something just out of his vision, watching him. Some dark, shadowy thing, casting its warped silhouette over the floor and walls.

It was doing something to him. It had done something to him. He wanted to scream, wanted to run, wanted to pound his fists, anything, anything, but nothing was happening. He had to wake up from this. He had to get back to himself.

A voice spoke to him. But not the voice of the thing in the room. A mortal voice, from just above. "Brother, it is time."

Emund closed and opened his eyes. A hooded man was looking down upon him. Two hooded men, their faces obscured in darkness.

He knew neither of these people. They were strangers. But they were staring expectantly, awaiting him to obey them. He didn't want to. But he couldn't move.

The men waited for a moment.

"He's in a trance," the other man said.

The first man shook his head. "It matters not. The time is now."

With that, they both reached down and grabbed Emund's wrists. Their hands were so hard and strong. It was like they were made of iron. Emund couldn't resist. They pulled him to his feet, slung his arms over their shoulders, and started walking.

Emund's legs weren't answering. What was this? He wanted to ask questions, wanted to figure this out, but his thoughts were lost in a haze. It was like he hadn't woken up after all.

He had to move. He had to fight free. This was all wrong, he didn't belong with these people, he had to get away. But he couldn't. His feet dragged on the floor beneath him. His arms were tight in place.

The main room was dark. The hearth had burned down to embers. Nighttime. No one was here to help him.

Emund wanted to be afraid. He wanted to feel the fear in his heart. But his thoughts were too far apart even for that.

The men pulled the door open, and brought him outside. It was a cool, brightly lit night, with the moons shining above. A horse-drawn wagon was waiting for them in the middle of the road, pointing north.

"Let's go," the driver urged. Another hooded man. They had black robes on. He couldn't even tell what they were beneath.

The two men pulled Emund down over the porch, down over the stones of the road. His feet bumped and scraped over the stones. Then they lifted him up into the back of the wagon, and laid him down on the cold wood.

This was it. If he was going to act, it had to be now. He had to think, had to think, if only he weren't being stopped—

This was the mask's doing, wasn't it? He realized that suddenly. The mask was making these people think he was someone else. It was obscuring his identity, making them confuse him for someone he wasn't.

And there had been a previous inhabitant in that room, hadn't there? A previous owner of this mask? Emund never been able to remember whom the person was. In fact, he hadn't even remembered that they'd existed, until now. But they had owned this mask. And somehow, that magic had passed on.

Finally, Emund felt fear. It seized and gripped in his chest, an icy clawing horror, telling him that his world was coming apart. He had to do something.

He willed himself to speak. He could do this much.

"Stop, please," he said, glancing between the robed men above him. "I just work at the inn, I'm not your man. This is all wrong."

But the men ignored him. One glanced at him briefly, but they didn't seem to even hear his words.

The driver started the wagon down the road. Emund felt the wooden surface lurch underneath him, jerking and swaying with the rough motions of the wheels. Why weren't they listening? Why would they bring him, knowing he was the wrong person?

Emund took a deep breath in, then pushed himself upright. He was instantly hit with a wall of dizziness. But he still moved for the back of the wagon, to get back out.

A pair of iron hands grabbed his arm and shoulder. He felt himself be twisted around, pushed face-first to the floor of the wagon. They were still moving.

"Be still, brother," the man's voice said. "You must not falter now in your spirit. All depends on your cooperation."

"My cooperation?!" Emund grunted and pulled away, twisting around to face his captor. For he did have a captor now. What a thought. "I don't know who you are! My name is Emund, I'm just an inn worker! I put on this mask by mistake! Why won't you let me go?"

The driver turned around and called back, "Our brother is taken by his magic today, isn't he?"

"We will keep him still," the one restraining Emund said. "Have no fear. In due time, he will thank us."

They couldn't even hear him, could they? It was the mask again. It had to be. His words were falling on deaf ears because of it.

And he was about to try pulling the mask off, when the other man in the wagon handed over a coil of rope, and the one atop him started binding his wrists behind his back. There was no fighting it. Loop after loop of rope wrapped around, passing in tight methodical pulls, before closing off with an elaborate knot.

All Emund could think was that this man had obviously had experience tying people's hands together.

Minutes went by. Emund couldn't move. The robed man was resting a knee on his back. At this point, he was considering just seeing where they were going to take him, and waiting for a better time to make his escape. Because no matter what, he was not going to join whatever insane cult this was out of a case of mistaken identity.

But it was giving him time to think, and that wasn't any comfort at all. He was wearing an incredibly powerful magical mask on his face. With it on, his identity was just the mask's. Nobody could know who he was, even if he tried to tell them. That had to be good for something. It still wasn't good for him right now.

After a while, the wagon turned sharply to the right, and the ride became suddenly much bumpier. They weren't going up to the mountain pass. They were going somewhere else along the way.

Emund supposed this was still time for him to think. But he couldn't think properly at all. He was having… something happen to him, and he wanted to wake up in bed and realize that it was all just an especially terrible dream. But that wasn't happening. This was actually happening in his life now.

This was what his life was doing now. He was being taken away by a band of crazy cultists, and… he couldn't leave. They had him stuck.

He probably should have called for help while he was in the village. Maybe it would've helped.

Or maybe it would've just ended up killing whoever came to his aid. That seemed likely.

After a while, the wagon turned to a gradual halt. They were stopped. Emund had no idea where. His face was still pressed against the wooden planks. Forget seeing where they'd come, he was lucky he hadn't gotten any splinters.

So he did the only thing he could think of, and asked: "Where are we?"

"Above the site," the man atop him replied simply.

With that, he shifted aside, and took hold of Emund's right shoulder. The other man grabbed his left, and they both began hauling him bodily out of the wagon.

They were in a wooded area, surrounded by trees, at the base of a steep hillside. And just beside them, right in the middle of the hill, was a cave. It had a big wooden door set in its entrance, just barely visible in the moonlight. And they were dragging him towards it.

Emund felt himself swallow. This was their hideout.

Their hideout was awfully close to Tvalistead, wasn't it? They couldn't have been riding just now for more than a couple hours.

While the driver started doing something on the horses—Emund couldn't see what, they were all behind him now—the other two men kept dragging him ahead. The one on his left removed a hand to pull out a heavy iron key from his robes, and when they got to the door, slid it into a big metal lock. The latch rolled back loudly and set in its open position, and the door swung open after.

Emund wondered if he could run away now. If he could break free while the one hand was off him, go for a horse, ride off before they could catch him. Probably not.

The passage inside was narrow and winding, carved right into the earth and rock, with wooden supports here and there, and torches burning in brackets on the walls. The air in here was faintly smoky and musty. But it was all silent.

And the men were leading him inside. It felt like… like going into his own grave.

The passage went in a slight curve to the right, gradually descending into the earth on the way. Then it suddenly turned to a steep downward spiral, with crude wooden steps making a sort of haphazard staircase. Emund struggled not to slip on them, still being pulled along by the two men. He didn't know what they had in store for him, but he wasn't going to die to an accidental fall.

When the stairs stopped, Emund was looking at a room. An open, low-ceilinged room, made all of stone. A solid iron chair was in the middle, ornately carved like something out of an old ruin.

And surrounding it was a semicircle of more hooded figures. Half a dozen of them, all standing there and staring right at him.

"The time has come," the man on Emund's right said. "Our brother is suffering the effects of his own magic. But we will proceed all the same. He wears the cowl. Our many labors will come to pass, today."

"Let it begin," said the man on his left.

And with that, every one of the figures in the semicircle lowered their hoods, showing their faces to him… and they were all ordinary-looking men and women, not much older than he himself. They stared at him coldly.

Then they reached into their robes, produced a strip of black cloth each, and began wrapping the strips across their eyes.

Emund stared blankly as the scene went on, as the strange people all wordlessly blindfolded themselves. This was too much for him to even think about. After a few seconds, the two men at his sides pushed him forwards, turning him around, sitting him down forcibly in the chair. His bound hands jammed awkwardly into the iron surface behind his back.

Perhaps now was the time to run. If they couldn't see him, even if only for a moment, that might have been all the advantage he needed.

He asked, before he could even help himself, "Are you going to kill me?"

The man on his right replied, "Far from it, brother. Relax, if you can. You are prepared for this."

No, Emund wasn't.

The man then let go of him briefly, just long enough to apply a blindfold himself. Then when he was done, and he'd resumed his grip, the man on the left did the same.

"Bring forth the scroll," said the one on the right.

The scroll? What were they going on about?

Another of the blindfolded cultists came circling around the side of the chair. A woman, with her hood lowered. She was carrying a huge, ornate golden scroll in her hands, decorated with three little purple gems across its length. Most of the length was just for the handles. It looked incredibly magical, whatever it was.

The woman said, "By your will, we present you the Elder Scroll. Read of it, and learn the bounty of its power."

It was an Elder Scroll.

This had just gone from being terrifying to being completely insane.

Emund turned his head aside, squeezing his eyes shut as hard as he could. He knew what would happen if he read this. He'd heard of this. His heart had jumped back up, it was hammering so hard, he couldn't think—"No, no, wait! This isn't my will! I don't want this!"

And that was as far as he got.

Gloved hands grabbed roughly over his face, turning it ahead, prying his eyelids open, forcing him to look. He couldn't move. So many hands were on him.

"Yes you do," the woman said.

She held the scroll before Emund's face in one hand, and with the other, pulled open its roll of writing.

For a split second, it looked like an oddly ethereal piece of fabric. Bluish in tone, translucent like gauze, marked with complex pale shapes.

Then Emund's eyes focused on the markings.

It was a blinding, burning explosion through his entire being. The arcane symbols struck unstoppably into him all at once, leaving thunderous, quaking echoes in their wake. An instant later, a searing white atlas of stars imprinted through his vision, melting everything they touched. An abstraction unveiled to show the running paths of Time, the stars multiplying, unfolding open to reveal their immutable truths, diverging into spiraling patterns that each showed the pillars of reality.

Everything around him fell away. There was only the vision of the ever-expanding web of creation.

And in an instant, the web shattered apart.

Images began to flicker by, fleeting glimpses of faraway ideas, washing over him with a chilling chorus of wordless whispers. A room with five walls surrounded him, each a perfect mirror, extending into infinity. Someone stood by, watching. The mirrors began to crack and break apart violently, leaving a lone black silhouette in a gray fog.

Stars and moons turned through the sky above. A man in a fanged helm stood alone on a snowy precipice. A young son and a young daughter offered forth one outstretched empty hand. A familiar figure plunged a dagger into the neck of a snarling black beast. Meanwhile, a mighty yet shrouded ghost of a figure watched from afar, scowling at a subject unseen.

The lone silhouette reached out to Emund with a twisted, broken hand of darkness. Then it was gone, and he saw two armored figures, watching an iron shell open around an inner light. The light went out just as quickly, and a dark shadow loomed overhead. A few dark red droplets fell past his vision, one by one, splashing lightly on a cold floor below.

The silhouette looked straight at him.

" _Another."_

The word cut through Emund's mind like a steel razor. He reeled desperately as more thoughts flashed by, trying not to lose himself to the pain. There was fear in this place. In the distance, the ghostly being's piercing blue scowl turned to face him.

A cloud of faint black wisps began to wreathe itself around him, enclosing him in a great swirling sphere. The sun flickered and turned to liquid, coming apart in a scattering of fading droplets. Then there was only darkness. Five broken mirrors surrounded him. Their infinite reflections reached into a terrible abyss.

Red drops fell past his face, splashing, splashing, collecting in a glistening puddle.

He looked above, and a figure hung in the air, blood dripping from their lifeless body. Their face was out of sight. All of it was smothered under shadow. He would not let himself see into it.

Yet a strange, unknown face stared back at him, deathly pale and cold despite the darkness. It was gone in an instant.

Emund realized something, and saw himself in a moment of extinguishing light. The silhouette reached out to him as the wisps tightened inward. Its face was pure featureless darkness.

He had to escape the scroll. He had to find his way back out. This was the fear he had found. He knew nothing of this place, but that he had to leave.

It was too late. The twisted dark hand touched him, ran its fingers down his face. He went numb.

The brilliant web of unfolding reality rose up to meet him like the bottom of a cliff. Everything went blank. The flow of Time halted and skipped.

Cold, flat stone pressed against Emund's back. He awoke to the sight of a concave wall. Not a wall, actually. A ceiling.

He sat up with a start, breathing fast, trying to sort out his surroundings. He had no idea what had just happened. Somehow, he was in the underground room with the iron chair. The torches were still burning.

But the robed cultists were all gone.


	6. Snowhawk

Morndas, 7:21 AM, 18th of Last Seed, 1E 173

Whitehorn Hall Garden

False edge high cut; high guard; true edge descending cut; low guard.

This was Yngva's present sword drill of choice. A constant, fluid pattern of cuts and transitions against the air, alternating from one side to the other, stepping backward and forward in place over the dewy grass. The steel of her blade flashed brilliantly every time it caught the golden rays of the sun.

Perhaps it might have looked graceful to an onlooker, but in truth, it was only strenuous. Her skin was already damp with sweat, despite the crisp coolness of the morning outdoors. And with every moment, she was acutely aware of her own infinitesimally mounting fatigue. Every step, every motion, even her very stance and posture, was a constant exercise in form. And the longer she went through these techniques, the harder the form became to maintain.

She had been out here since sunrise, practicing her various martial techniques. And so it was for every day—after waking and completing her morning necessities, she would exit to the garden, and do her work. When her parents were home, one of them would often help her. At times like this, she simply worked on her own.

The garden fit the sensibilities of her routine, as well. It comprised a spacious, octagonal enclosure of high stone walls beyond her home's back porch, chiefly filled with neatly mown grass, with a perimeter of varied and curious herbs and flowers. For all the riches of her household, it was sensible—and necessary, given certain factors—to maintain practical uses for things, and so the contents of their garden were largely used for alchemy.

There was also a sizable weapon rack under the porch's roof, stocked with an array of training pieces—spears, poleaxes, longswords, arming swords, daggers, even some unstrung bows awaiting use. Yngva trained with them all.

But the longsword was her favorite by far, and when no one was giving her specific instruction, this was what she practiced with the most. Nothing came even close to rivaling this weapon's marriage of strength, reach and finesse. It mattered not that this particular longsword was a blunted training weapon, unsuitable for any real combat—when she grasped its hilt in her hands, she felt as though the field of battle were hers to dominate.

After a time, her training was interrupted by a noise from behind the wall. A strange, insistent scraping sound, as though made with an implement of metal, easily audible over the distant bustle of the city. Yngva came to a halt with her longsword in the low position, and looked about for the sound's source.

There was a person climbing over the wall of the garden.

This was hardly cause for alarm, however. In fact, the sight of the person atop the wall graced Yngva's face with a genuine smile. She recognized the figure instantly. A boy, a couple years younger than herself, with shoulder-length brown hair, wearing ornately colored leather armor over a dark tunic and leggings. The armor's chest was adorned with the three-armed spiral of Hjaalmarch's sigil, with green lines and white accents over the armor's dark brown. It was unmistakable.

"Good morning, Hakind," Yngva smiled.

The boy dropped down from the wall, landing a mere few inches in front of the frost mirriam bushes below. He surveyed the garden briefly, before focusing on Yngva with a winning smile. It became apparent that he was wearing a sword on his belt—a real one, no doubt, not for training—but anyone of his station would be. "Good morning," he replied brightly. "I was wondering how you were doing today. Thought I might drop by."

Yngva sighed emphatically and started sauntering back towards the porch, longsword held downward in one hand. "You're lucky I'm a kind soul, or I would throw you straight back over that wall for your wordplay." She paused as she put the sword away, glancing mirthfully over her shoulder at her new visitor. "And I can."

"You always were one for strength," Hakind nodded as he stepped out into the middle of the garden. He truly was looking quite handsome today. At a mere thirteen years of age, his visage and statue were boyish by necessity, but he had always carried himself gracefully. He may have been only beginning on his journey to manhood, but his was the image of a boy who knew and accepted himself well. "So, uh… is Drisa around?"

Drisa was the steward. Not every Thane had one of those, but among the ones whose livelihoods were built on constant travel, a steward was a vital necessity. This was something Yngva had learned relatively recently—for most of her childhood, Drisa had been essentially her second mother. There was no need to question why she lived with them.

Of course, Hakind did have understandable reasons for asking for her whereabouts. It was a simple matter of privacy.

"Yes, she is indeed home," Yngva said as she headed over to the table by the porch's edge. She'd left a folded cloth here for herself, sitting in a shallow dish of water. As she spoke, she wrung the cloth out in both hands—by Shor, were her hands aching—and began wiping the sweat off of herself. "I don't suppose you want to talk to her, now."

Hakind chuckled aloud. "No, not really. Parents still out?"

Not a particularly surprising question. Yngva offered a brief nod, before reaching back to free her hair. She was quite proud of her wavy blonde locks, it had to be said, but they had to be tied back for training. It always felt satisfying to bring them back to normal. "It's been just short of a month. Rather strange, since the ruin they were after—I believe, at least—is here in Hjaalmarch. This happens from time to time, though."

"I bet," Hakind murmured. "I mean… I can't talk about that. Sometimes my mother goes away for work, but never very long. Usually, people come to _her_."

Yngva nodded again, expressionless, as she set the rag back down on the table. "Yes. Yes, they do."

That was because Hakind's mother was the Jarl of Snowhawk, Idrun the Clever. The firstborn heir of Jarl Thein Snowbane, who had been awarded the hold for clearing it of all its dangerous Falmer enclaves. And Hakind, in turn, was the firstborn of Idrun. Someday, the three spires of Snowhawk would be his.

It had been interesting to grow up alongside this boy. They hadn't really started talking until a few years ago, but they had a great deal in common with one another. Certainly more than their parents did. They'd trained the same ways, studied under the same tutors, learned the same etiquette. This was their world.

Hakind asked, "What are you thinking?"

"Mainly about how long we've been friends with each other." It couldn't hurt to tell the truth. "I presume your mother the Jarl doesn't mind. I certainly don't."

She said this because despite their common ground, there was one glaring difference between them—unlike the title of Jarl, the title of Thane was not inherited. And this simple fact was why her surroundings were so oriented towards practicality. When it came time for Yngva to take her own role in the world, it would be as a person of low birth. Of sizable wealth, substantial education, good martial skill, yes—but if she desired a title of her own, she would have to earn it.

"Friends, huh?" Hakind started to put on a knowing smirk, but then stopped himself. His gaze faltered. "I don't, uh…"

Perhaps that had been a misstep. Yngva made a quick mental backtrack through their exchange so far, to find what exactly she had said wrong. "… Well, unless you were planning on _wedding_ me one day. I rather like what we have. I enjoy training and talking with you, and as for the rest… well, you get the idea."

Hakind paused. A few agonizingly long seconds passed by, wherein the only sound was the faint noise of the awakening city outside. Eventually, he said, "I don't know. It would feel better, to bind it all in the eyes of Mara."

Yngva took a deep breath in. This was one of the less fortunate aspects of what they had together. She wished she could say the notion was entirely unrequited, but that would be a feeble lie. All she could do was to attempt to approach the situation wisely.

"There are two things… two things, that we should both remember. First, that we shouldn't decide such things of our future at our age. We're not exactly wearing Mara's amulet. Second, your mother would never allow it. If you're going to wed anyone, it should be someone who can give you heirs of your own. We shouldn't act as though I'm that person."

The boy visibly winced at that last remark. And Yngva couldn't have sympathized more. It was a simple fact, and one that they were both well aware of—Yngva, as it happened, had not always been Yngva. She had been born Yngvi. And then, some years ago, she had realized that that wasn't quite right at all. The events since then were rather ongoing. Suffice to say, they involved a great deal of herbal treatments and rewritten records.

"For what it's worth," Hakind said, "you are definitely a girl as far as I'm concerned."

Yngva nodded politely. "Thank you."

"I mean, you look like one."

"I would hope."

"And sound like one."

"Your voice _is_ deeper than mine."

"And I'm pretty sure you use lavender soap."

"… I always used lavender soap." Yngva gave him an impatient look. "What do _you_ use? Raw plain tallow?"

Hakind paused again, frowning at nothing for a moment, as though scouring himself for an answer. "Um… uh… whatever's there?"

"You should really keep track of what you bathe yourself with. That's important."

Before the younger Nord could answer, Yngva strode the remaining distance up to him, took hold of his collar, and leaned in to sniff at his neck. She stepped back a pace just as quickly, before the scent had even identified itself in her nose. "… All right, that's juniper. … Very potent. Did you bathe earlier this morning, or something?"

"Maybe," Hakind muttered. It took Yngva a moment to realize that he was blushing profusely. It seemed that being aggressively smelled at resulted in some favorable reaction from him.

"And yet you couldn't remember what you did it with."

Hakind offered a half-hearted shrug. "Well, I do it every other day, it's not like it's a new experience."

"Perfect Jarl's whelp, right here. Always cleaned to a mirror polish." Yngva smiled. But try as she might, and topics notwithstanding, she couldn't bring herself to resist anymore. Before the boy could reply, she was upon him, embracing him in both arms, with her lips right on his.

It was such a swift, unhesitating motion that it might have come off as almost casual. This wasn't the first time they had kissed, nor the tenth, nor the hundredth. But the gesture was as replete with meaning as it had always been.

They held the kiss for a few long seconds, shifting and writhing gently against one another, before pulling away once more. Hakind's cheeks were visibly flushed again.

"I… actually have something for you," he said. "A gift. That's why I came here."

Yngva raised an eyebrow wryly. "Dare I ask?"

In response, Hakind pulled away from her, looked down at himself, and began to open his belt pouch with one hand. "I know you told me you don't like being given things that anyone could have with a bit of silver. Because… you have silver. We both do. So I got you this."

With that, he reached inside the pouch, and drew forth a long loop of fine steel chain. It was running through half a dozen palm-sized off-white engraved discs, each with a circular hole in the center to permit the chain's passage.

Yngva gasped in surprise. Yes, Hakind was absolutely right—this was something he couldn't obtain with silver. At the very least, not if he valued his own future.

Those whitish discs were moon rings. Falmer currency. The High King had declared them illegal for use, long before Yngva's birth. The only lawful form of transferring them between owners was to relinquish them to the authorities for destruction. Strictly speaking, it was legal to possess the discs, as long as they weren't traded for or given away, but that meant they were nonetheless incredibly hard to find.

And Yngva, as it happened, kept a personal collection of them. From time to time, her parents would discover a few stray moon rings on their adventures—and since they couldn't be legally sold, Yngva was free to keep them. They were beautiful things, even if they belonged to an era she had never known. To the contrary, that rather added to the mystique.

Hakind was the only person outside her household to know she collected them. She had shown them to him once, quite a few years ago, when she'd been in a particularly sharing mood. They had rarely mentioned the collection since. It seemed best not to draw attention to.

And here he was, holding out a chain full of the forbidden tokens for her to take.

She walked forwards steadily, not bothering to conceal her anticipation. "Thank you," she breathed. "This… this means a great deal, it—how did you come by these?"

"They were in a supply cache in the marshes. There were over a hundred of them. A few Companions sold us the entire cache without looking through all of it. Obviously, my mother ordered all of the moon rings smashed to pieces, but I managed to sneak a few away for you first. I thought you'd appreciate them."

"Well, thank you," Yngva repeated. That was a bit of a sad story, if only for all the other moon rings lost in the process. But seeing these half-dozen survivors hanging in the air, her feelings were taken with far more beautiful notions. She reached out and took hold of the chain halfway down, before cradling the handful of carved discs in her other hand.

Yes, they were beautiful. Every one of them was engraved with ancient symbols and patterns, crafted with plainly elaborate care. If they carried any representative meaning, it was lost on Yngva, but no Nord craft ever showed quite this sort of wonder.

Hakind smiled at her, almost sheepishly. "You're welcome. Enjoy."

Of course, it would be eminently unwise to leave this gift where it could be seen. But Yngva was wearing her training gear, which consisted only of plain padded armor, gloves and boots. This left her nowhere to stow the moon rings on her person, unless she wanted to wear the chain as a necklace—and so that was precisely what she did. The loop was long enough that even after putting it on and extracting her hair from beneath it, she still had to make the effort to drop the discs down the front of her collar.

She promptly shivered involuntarily. "Oo-ohoh, are those cold."

At that moment, the doors to the house swung open behind her. Even before she turned around, Yngva realized this was going to be trouble. If Drisa had seen the exchange of the moon rings… at the very least, it would be ill fortune for the Jarl to learn that her son had spared some from the hammer.

And sure enough, the steward of the house was standing right there in the doorway of the porch. She was an older woman, always dressed formally, always diligent in demeanor. Her expression was one of pure dismay.

Too much dismay.

Far too much.

Yngva didn't have to think about what this meant. She already knew. She looked at Drisa's face, and her heart stopped.

Everything dropped away from around her. In that instant, every thought in her mind, the accumulated experiences of her day, all fell silent. This was unreal. It couldn't be real.

A quiet, distant voice asked, "What is it?"

This was real life, this wasn't a dream, this was truly happening. Her future, everything she'd thought for herself, it had just been erased. They'd been away for a month, and that was normal, but now—now they were never coming home. And it was very, very real.

Another voice said, "Yngva… A wanderer went to check on the ruin that your mother and father were exploring. They… both of them are dead. I'm so sorry."

She already knew. Gods, she already knew. At some point, she'd fallen to her knees, her eyes were burning, her face was… wet… she couldn't bring herself to make even a sound. She couldn't even breathe.

A pair of hands took hold of the back of her shoulders. It was Hakind. He shouldn't have had to see this. It was bad enough already.

What was there to say? Yngva didn't know what to say. Her mind remained blank. She was kneeling here, and doing nothing.

Then, right in the midst of the moment, Hakind asked, "How did it happen?"

Drisa sighed audibly. "That … is the second part of the news, I'm afraid. All of the draugr were already fallen, and the ruin was found missing its treasure. Somebody followed them in."


	7. Deep Perspectives

Loredas, 7:48 AM, 16th of Second Seed, 1E 173

Mzulft

"But, Mother… what if I fail?"

"You won't."

The boy looked up at Dalzren slowly, one eyebrow raised in the age-old gesture of skepticism. "How do you know that?"

"I know what sort of person you are, Amalest. You are of a studious, querying mind. If you can surprise me with your ideas, you can surprise your instructors."

This was a significant morning for them both. For Amalest, it was so because the Domain of Learning preferred its constituents to put their tests at the end of the workweek. Today, he had a test in creative design, which no doubt would result in him being faced with a task like conveying an object across a room, and responding by launching it out of a hydraulic tube in the fashion of a cork.

Dalzren had done that once as a child. Perhaps that had been a fair indicator of what had lain in her future.

Amalest stood up suddenly, and strode across to the far side of the room, where a full-height mirror was fixed to the wall. He was examining himself, examining his robes, examining his braids. "Do you think my hair is all right?"

"Yes, Amalest," Dalzren said patiently.

"Someday I'm going to have to take care of a beard, too." The young Dwemer stepped back from the mirror, checked the timepiece in his pocket, and sighed to himself. "All right, I'm out of time to procrastinate with. I'll see you later today, then?"

Dalzren stood up from her seat to follow across, and took her son in a gentle, close embrace. "May the axioms be on your side. I will see you soon."

"Thanks," Amalest smiled—even in their embrace, his expression was visible in the mirror. With that, he headed for the door, slipped into his shoes, and stepped out into the constant stream of the bustle outside.

That left her alone in their home once again. But there was no time to stand about and contemplate. She turned on her heel decisively, and strode back to her room. If she did not hasten to prepare herself, she would risk being late. And today was no day to do that.

Her room was a spacious one, well-lit and well-furnished, with smooth stone and gleaming metal for nearly every surface. A beautifully woven rug of deep red and gold recursive patterns adorned much of the floor. Around the walls were her desk, sink, wardrobe, storage chests, personal machinery, and double bed.

It had been her own room for five years. Every time she looked at her bed, she was reminded of that. In her position, it should not have remained this way, but…

Dalzren composed herself, and reordered her thoughts. She had no time for distractions.

There was more to do before leaving. She had already showered clean, braided her hair, and dressed in a plain white shift. Enough to see her son off for the day. But her colleagues didn't want to see Dalzren the mother. They needed to see Dalzren the designer.

First went on the robes. The inner black layer, and the outer jeweled layers, all laid carefully in place with one another. Then went on her belt of office, whose buckle was a great golden disc emblazoned with her domain's symbol. Finally, she retrieved the jewelry from its chest, and applied it in all its places—fingers, neck, chin, ears.

At least so it went, until she fumbled with her left earring, and sent it flying out at the wall at her side. It bounced on the stone lightly, and fell straight into the vent of the radiator pipe beneath.

Dalzren cursed under her breath, for her arm's unwanted motion, for its undue consequence. Her earrings were part of her apparel of status. She could not leave without them. But to retrieve this one from the radiator vent, she would have to remove the entire pipe segment from the wall—not something she could do in a spare minute before work.

To make sure of the predicament, she crouched down over the vent for a closer look. Nothing was visible inside. There was little to do besides to take the right earring off—in a brief moment of absurd thought, she considered dropping it in with the left so that she wouldn't forget where it was.

Ultimately, she returned it to its chest. If anyone asked about her missing jewelry, she would simply have to concoct something satisfactory for the issue. The truth would only humiliate her.

On the way out, she gave herself a brief glance in the full-height mirror. This was Dalzren the engineer—a member of Mzulft's proudest echelon, the Domain of Design. It had taken a long time for her to feel natural in this regal attire, but all things came with practice.

Now it was time to begin her day in earnest. She turned to the front door, and stepped through… into the small, quiet residential corridor beyond. It took another pair of doors beyond that to enter the true veins of Mzulft.

That was when the noise began.

It was less of a corridor and more of an unending hall, vaulted and pillared, running uphill from left to right, its walls regularly dotted with doors off to other places. A constant stream of people walked up and down past her—children on their way to their classes, common workers milling about with sundry automatons rolling along in tow, high officials striding by in their gilded robes. Here, Dalzren was simply another face in the crowd.

She turned right, and began her way up to the city's higher levels. Her work awaited her there.

This was an oddity of Mzulft's unique architectural design. Every other Dwemer freehold in Skyrim extended down into the depths of the earth, with their most precious treasures at their lowest points. But in Mzulft, as one traveled, one went upward. It followed the slope of the mountainside it was built beneath. And the greatest works of the city were at its pinnacle, beneath the light of the sky.

Every day that Dalzren walked to her place of work, it was a lengthy climb up the central corridors of the city. She appreciated the exertion, truly. It reminded her of how far above her lay the essence of the Dwemer race.

A voice behind her said, "Good morning!"

Dalzren glanced over her shoulder as she walked, but she already recognized the voice. The glance was merely so she could offer its source a gracious smile.

"Good morning to you too, Rideroc."

The Dwemer man quickened his pace to walk at Dalzren's side. He was a younger fellow, just mature enough to have grown his beard to its first row of metal rings. His robes were crisp, clean, and dark—but plain, besides the gleaming icon upon his belt. The characteristic garb of a new member of a domain. In his case, the Domain of Husbandry.

"I heard that today is the big day," he grinned. "Do you think your friends are ready for the task?"

Dalzren smirked wryly. "Do you think _your_ friends have done their job correctly?"

"Fair point." Rideroc held his hands up in amused concession. "But this is your day. You should be proud of yourself for this."

Ordinarily, Dalzren might have chastised the man for prying into affairs in which he had no business. But as it happened, today the business of their two domains would intersect.

Accordingly, she instead asked: "Are you going to be with us for this?"

Rideroc shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not. I'm as involved as anyone in my domain, but you'll have to tell me about it when it's done with."

"If it works, you'll hardly need to rely on my account of it. This will be a turning point for the balance of power in the Dwemer freeholds."

"Perhaps, but when I can help it, I prefer to speak to you. You're much more enjoyable than most."

At this, Dalzren smiled. "Thank you."

And there was a great deal of reason for her thanks. While she might never have wanted to say it aloud, the truth was that Rideroc was the only Dwemer male she could talk to without worrying about ulterior motives. She was a high-status Dwemer woman with no husband and only one child. By law, she was entitled to a second, and there was no shortage of suitors who wanted to aid her in that. It became rather unbearable, after a while.

But given Rideroc's background, it only stood to reason that he would give Dalzren a respectful distance. He had always been kind to her. In fact, he had introduced her husband to her, a long time ago. They had all been young then.

She preferred not to think at length about how those years had turned out.

The younger Dwemer returned the smile for a moment, before resuming speaking. "Before I forget—how is Amalest doing?"

"He has a test today. He was worried about it, but I'm confident in him."

"A little worry doesn't hurt with those tests," Rideroc grumbled. "That's what I remember, for sure."

Dalzren laughed aloud. "Oh, don't be so sour. You've earned a good station for yourself. In twenty years' time, you could be anywhere in the domain you want."

The two of them passed beneath an open doorway into a wide atrium. A great, unsupported space, with a split-level square floor, higher by the left wall, lower by the right. All four walls bore a doorway to exit through. And the room was filled with people. Some standing, some walking, some alone, some in groups. The droning clamor of their myriad conversations was, cumulatively, even louder than the white noise of the city's machine infrastructure.

Here, the passersby were all wearing the dark robes of Mzulft's domains. Design, Administration, Records, Security—their headquarters all branched out from this one room. Dalzren waved politely to the ones she recognized as she passed by.

Rideroc asked, "You really think today's work will make that big of a difference?"

"You're familiar with Abizal's Law, yes?"

"With the polynomial progression, and…"

"That's the one," Dalzren nodded.

The younger Dwemer shrugged. "Well, I understand the theory. I suppose given how much work has gone into this, the practice must pay off as well."

At the top of the stairs, Dalzren slowed her pace. The doorway was directly ahead. And she would proceed through soon enough, but she didn't want to be overheard. She leaned in towards the younger Dwemer and lowered her voice to a more discreet tone.

"Perhaps I shouldn't say this, but to be perfectly candid, there's more at hand than the practice 'paying off'. Harsinc has been after us for results for months. We need something to show our edge over the other freeholds. Not an easy feat, with the likes of Bthardamz and Raldbthar as contenders."

"We're still better," Rideroc said instantly, as Dalzren was still leaning back away.

"Indeed."

The two cities in question were often considered the greatest Dwemer powerhouses in Skyrim. Both of them had cadet cities nearby—Bthar-zel and Irkngthand, respectively. But besides that, Bthardamz had a population of more than twice any other Dwemer city, and Raldbthar stood atop an underground mine seemingly as vast and rich as all the other freeholds' resources combined.

But if the greatest strengths of the Dwemer lay in their numbers, they would have been overrun by the Nords centuries ago. Any race could multiply its population to fill the entire land. The Dwemer knew better than to try.

Rideroc glanced at her and added, "You'd best get in there. Time waits for no one."

"So they say." Dalzren nodded in acknowledgement, and started on her way ahead. She could resume this conversation later in the day, when their working hours were past.

Behind her, Rideroc called out, "Good luck to you!"

So as not to delay herself further, Dalzren simply waved an arm without looking. But the remark did put a smile upon her face.

The corridor ahead was much more sparsely trafficked than the previous areas. Several Dwemer were walking about ahead of her, a couple of guards were standing on duty in full armor, and that was all. The corridor went straight for a stretch, then went upward, to the top of the city.

This was Dalzren's place of work.

But she wasn't going to the top of the city today. After passing between the second pair of pillars in the corridor, she turned immediately right, and entered a pair of heavy double doors. They swung open effortlessly at her touch.

And beyond them was the room where the morning's events would be taking place. It was a fairly large, open space, with a high vaulted ceiling, much like the atrium previously. Also like the atrium, it was filled with a multitude of Dwemer—although in this case, she knew them all well.

But the room felt somewhat smaller all the same, because there was a slightly lower 'ceiling' running from wall to wall, made out of an unbroken grid of tubular metal rails. Assorted machinery was hanging from it at strategic points, mounted on inverted armatures whenever necessary. Most of it was folded upwards, resting against the false ceiling until needed, but some was actively deployed even now.

In the center of it all was a single, pure metal reclined seat on a solid stand, with distinct rests for the head and all four limbs. A few pieces of highly articulated machinery surrounded it, notably a single hanging device directly overhead, with an elaborate pronged mechanism on a two-jointed arm.

One of the Dwemer in attendance walked up to Dalzren. An older male, ornately robed, with a bald-topped head and a pure black beard. His face had a weathered look about it that, if left alone, might have suggested sedate wisdom. But that would have required him to stop and look contemplative.

His name was Nirthas, and he was one of the few people here who were probably better at their jobs than Dalzren herself. Whatever else was to be said about him, he did know all about how to work with the odder machines of Mzulft.

He put his hands upon his hips, and fixed Dalzren with a flippant grin. "You're late. And not wearing your earrings."

That certainly hadn't taken long. Dalzren did her best not to grimace. "It's… a long story. Where's the boss?"

"Hizeft?" The Dwemer shrugged noncommittally. "We'll begin whenever she arrives."

It was most unusual, for the Chief Designer to be late to such a procedure as this. If Dalzren had to guess, it was because of something to do with the Domain of Husbandry. The interaction between their two domains was typically constrained to the exchange of alchemy reagents. This must have been filled with new variables.

Not that there was any sense in assuming about the unknown. To do so at any time was an obviously poor practice, but this was the Domain of Design. Their ways of thought shaped their exploration of the world's limits. They, of all people, had to know not to assume anything.

As she replied to Nirthas' answer, Dalzren walked on towards the machinery at the center of the room. "I suppose that gives us time to prepare. How are we for diagnostics?"

Around the periphery of the room, a few other designers were standing about and working on the other machines, or else simply talking with one another. It looked like they were preparing a variety of sensors and nullifiers, aligning different crystalline nodes with one another throughout the room. Creating a magic-neutral environment in which to conduct the process.

Nirthas said, "Not that there's terribly much to monitor, but I've checked and re-checked all the physical mechanics here. Once the room is prepared, we'll have little to do but wait."

"I see." Dalzren gave the central metal seat another brief look over, before clasping her hands together and turning back to Nirthas. "Good work. Very good work. Perhaps I should find something to look busy on?"

Nirthas chuckled under his breath. "Ahh… That won't matter, I think. In fact, if we're all standing about impatiently, that makes a better impression. The pressure is all on those san-swiggers in Husbandry."

"But that also means the credit will go to them if this works," Dalzren said.

That made the Dwemer pause and frown. "… Fair enough. But if they do their part well, perhaps their credit will be duly deserved. Harsinc is always going on about unity between the domains, isn't he?"

"Something like that, yes."

"Of course, this all assumes that our endeavor will work today," he added, with a hint of a smile. "If it does, perhaps a celebration is in order."

"Let Husbandry have it," Dalzren said immediately. No, she was not going to agree to a special celebratory outing with Nirthas. One would think that after enough rejections from her, the man would find someone else to pursue, but it seemed that the Dwemer tenets of logic did not extend to attempts at courtship.

Fortunately, their conversation was interrupted at that moment by the doors opening once more. Dalzren stepped aside to look past her peer at the new entrants.

The first through was a Dwemer woman, gaunt-faced and gray-haired, wearing ornately gilded robes over her body, a long row of jewelry along her ears and chin, and a prominently broad circlet upon her head. The Chief Designer, in her work uniform. She nodded to her subordinates as she entered.

Behind her was another older Dwemer, male, wearing robes of similarly elaborate decoration. Dalzren had seen him only a few times. But before she could contemplate this, she saw who was following them in. Or more accurately, _what_ was.

It was flanked on either side by robed Dwemer, guiding it along with thick metal chains attached to a collar on its neck. A pale, hairless, hideous creature, skulking along upon two legs. It had featureless wrinkles of skin where eyes might have once gone, and two high slits in place of the structures of a nose. Its ears were pointed in the fashion of mer, but even they were elongated and deformed. Fortunately, it had been clad in a black loincloth, so as to spare them from seeing any more.

This was a Falmer. Dalzren's sense of analysis told her that this specimen was of a particularly young and strong constitution, but her sense of instinct told her not to even look. Hopefully, this would not have to take long.

The two Dwemer holding its chains were wearing the icons of the Domain of Husbandry. No doubt, their peers had worked hard on raising this creature. Such was their contribution to today's task.

"Good morning," said Chief Designer Hizeft, stopping in place a fair distance inside the room. As she spoke, one of the designers closed the doors behind the group. "As you're all aware, I do not favor making inspirational speeches _before_ the outcome of a test such as this. But we nevertheless have a few points to cover. Firstly, please welcome Chief Cultivator Nevenis, who will be attending this event as an observer."

The other older Dwemer stepped out from behind her, and addressed the assembled designers himself. "Hello, everyone. I'd like to take a moment to note that your workspace is much prettier than mine."

That elicited a laugh from the others. Even Dalzren had to chuckle a little. Based on what she'd seen of the Domain of Husbandry, she couldn't even disagree.

"Speaking more seriously," the Dwemer continued, "whether or not today's procedure works as intended, it is a rare occasion for our domains to explore a new venture side by side. To be here today is my genuine pleasure, and I speak on behalf of all my domain when I say I look forward to further exploring this unique opportunity for discovery and achievement."

Hizeft nodded appreciatively to him before continuing. "Thank you, Chief Nevenis. Now, the second item: Clan Chief Harsinc has asked me to remind you all to exercise caution with the Falmer present. While they are docile under controlled circumstances, they are fundamentally more cunning than common animal life, and must be handled accordingly. Unless your assignment involves close contact with the subject, please keep your distance." She paused briefly. "Are we clear to proceed?"

"The device is ready for activation," said Nirthas, from Dalzren's side.

Another designer called from across the room, "We have a neutral aura."

Dalzren glanced at them both, then turned to the Chief Designer. "Yes, we are."

Without further ado, the two cultivators led the Falmer forwards, right past Dalzren and Nirthas, up to the reclined seat at the room's center. The Falmer obediently turned and seated itself at their motioning.

While the cultivators stood back and held its chains tight, two designers secured the Falmer to the seat's extremities with heavy hinged restraints at the ankles and wrists. Each time they fastened a restraint, they checked it afterwards with a firm tug of the fingers. It couldn't have been a better-rehearsed procedure. None of them even needed to say anything.

Hizeft and Nevenis walked up slowly to stand at Dalzren's side, watching the proceedings intently. Dalzren, for her part, was suddenly acutely aware that she was within arm's length of two domain chiefs at once. That had never happened before in her life.

Once the Falmer was securely in place, one of the designers reached up to the overhead pronged machine, and began to pull it downwards. Its jointed arms unfolded smoothly, bringing the machinery at the end directly down atop the Falmer below. The pronged portion fit snugly over the creature's forehead, almost in the fashion of a circlet.

Meanwhile, the two cultivators remained holding their lengths of chain. It hardly seemed necessary. The Falmer had yet to resist in the slightest. It must have been incredibly well-trained, if nothing else.

The overhead machine was largely made of metal, but that wasn't all. Along the underside of its lower arm were five flanged slots, each holding onto the base of a translucent, iridescent crystal. The farther they were up the arm, the larger they were in size.

Soul gems. They were the lifeblood of Dwemer design. Through them, unliving materials could be given the properties of life—containment of energy, usage of magic effects, even the ability to think. And the stronger the soul being contained, the larger the gem had to be, and the more powerful became the effects.

The souls of sapient beings, like Dwemer and Nords, were unusable for this purpose. But the souls of lesser creatures, like the one before them now, were perfectly possible to contain. In fact, this was exactly why the Domain of Husbandry bothered with raising the Falmer at all. Compared to common beasts, their souls were incredibly useful when contained.

There was only one problem—the Falmer were strong, but not as strong as they could be. Of the five grades of soul gem, they always were always within the span of Grade 1 to Grade 4.

The Domain of Husbandry had been very busy dealing with this.

"Activating," said one of the designers, before pressing a button on the pronged machine's side.

There was a loud, wet crack as the machine drove a solid metal spike through the Falmer's braincase. An instant later, a bluish aura rumbled into existence around its body—and snapped loudly outwards with a reverberating rush, sending a cascade of Aetherial wisps through the air into the machine above.

They were gathering in the farthest soul gem up the arm. The Grade 5.

Everyone present stood and stared in silence. The two cultivators let their chains fall free, leaving them to swing gently side by side below the headrest of the seat. The stream of energy continued for some seconds longer, before eventually tapering off, leaving the soul gem glittering with a new inner light.

It was done.

"My friends," Chief Cultivator Nevenis said, "we have just made history!"

And with that, the room erupted into applause.


	8. A Welcome Back

Loredas, 9:21 AM, 9th of Last Seed, 1E 173

Unknown Location

Everything was fuzzy. Emund couldn't think.

He was on a stone floor. It wasn't a safe place. There were people here who wanted to hurt him.

Except they weren't in here. He had to leave before they came.

That awful clinging mask was still on his head. He pulled it off and let it fall to the floor. His head was throbbing, his vision was blurry. None of this made any sense.

But he had to do something. He had to keep doing something. So he crawled forwards, along the coldness and roughness of the stone, until he reached something else.

Stairs. These were the way out of here. Emund grabbed onto the first step, and hauled himself upward. Then he grabbed the next, and kept going. The stairs were turning to the left constantly. He was going to hit his head if this kept up.

As he continued on, Emund's head began to clear. He was struggling to remember how he'd gotten here, besides that it hadn't been on purpose. Everything had been against his will.

He lived in Tvalistead. It was a village south of Eldersblood Peak, surrounded by farms, total population… just over a hundred. This shouldn't have been difficult to remember. He'd never lived anywhere else.

But he lived in that village, and someone had taken him here. It was because of that awful mask. He'd put it on, and the men in robes had come for him. They'd seemed to believe he was someone else.

And he was lucky, wasn't he? He could've died. They could've slit his throat over some ancient evil altar, or worse. But instead, they'd just made him read…

… that thing.

He remembered it in fragments. The golden scroll, the atlas of stars. Blood dripping from high above. Deathly shadows reaching out for him.

Suddenly, fear gripped his chest. He could feel his heart starting to race, just thinking back to that awful vision. Enough of that. He had to get back home.

As Emund moved forward, he couldn't help but observe that his memory of that vision was somehow even scarier than… well, the rest of this. Than the fact that he'd been abducted by cultists and used for their dark ritual. He had to force himself to calm down again. Deep breaths, just focusing, just trying to calm down and think. That was what he needed.

It didn't make sense that they were all gone. Had he been asleep? Probably not, with how short the stubble was on his face. Thrown forward in Time, or something like that? Still didn't explain everybody being missing.

By the time he reached the top of the stairs, his head was feeling clear enough for him to try standing up. For safety's sake, he crawled a bit ahead of the staircase first. But his legs answered him now, and he moved right into a walk.

As he recalled, the cultists had brought him here on a horse-drawn cart, and then left it outside. If he was lucky, it might still be there. He imagined he could simply ride it all the way back home. Not that he'd ever tried steering a cart before, but how hard could it be?

The doors at the mouth of the cave were open. It was daytime outside. Emund could see the sun shining amid the trees and grass ahead. As he approached the exit, the air around him began to feel cooler and more humid. Birds were chirping in the distance. His pace quickened. He couldn't wait to be out of here.

But he never found the cart. As he stepped out of the open doorway, he was suddenly surrounded by an evergreen forest. The ground was sloped up behind him, and covered in grass and shrubs. It even had a clear path of bare dirt where the cart had doubtless gone back and forth, turning right from the cave and going off to someplace out of view.

Emund started slowly down the path. It seemed he would be walking all the way back home.

Thankfully, the cultists had never changed his clothing. He was still wearing his work outfit, which included shoes. The ones that had taken him months to save up for. The leather soles had done a good job protecting his feet from the roughness of the road through Tvalistead. Now they protected his feet from the roughness of this path he'd never walked before in his life.

As he walked, he had time to think. Time to calculate his situation, as best he could. His goal was to get back to Tvalistead as quickly as possible. So he had to figure out where to go. The slope upward was to his right, and that had to be north. The sun, meanwhile, was behind him and to the left, which meant it had to be southeast. So it was still morning. He must have only been out for the night.

But his father was probably already wondering where he was. That thought alone made him quicken his pace. This was all frightening enough without thinking of how people might be worrying for him.

Before long, he reached the low wooden bridge over the tributary, the one he'd crossed over on the way here. His mouth was still uncomfortably dry, but he didn't dare risk taking a drink. The water was slow, deep, meandering. It would be full of all sorts of tiny creatures, waiting to make him sick, or to infest him. He knew better.

And that was actually rather strange. If the cultists had been living here, where had they gotten their water? Everyone needed a supply of fresh water to live. Had they taken the water from here, and simply boiled it?

But on second thought, they couldn't have been living here. At least, not in that little cave. There hadn't been any sleeping quarters or anything. It had just been that one little room for their rituals.

None of this made any sense. Emund knew he should have had a whole lot of questions right now. For the love of Shor, he'd just been abducted! That thought was taking a while to sink in. He'd been dragged off and forced into a bizarre ritual, and now all the cultists were gone, and… it didn't make sense. None of it made sense.

The path was taking forever to walk along, too. He just tried to keep himself focused, and keep himself moving. Thankfully, he wasn't feeling too tired, but… this whole thing was bizarre. Maybe now that the cultists were gone, he could just go back to chopping wood and serving tables.

They hadn't wanted him anyway. They'd wanted someone else. The mask had just confused them.

In the future, he was going to have to ask his father to pay more attention to whom they allowed to stay in the inn.

Eventually, the main road, the one that was paved with actual stones, became visible up ahead. The trees parted neatly around it. Emund couldn't help but hurry. He just wanted to make sure that Tvalistead was waiting for him.

And it was.

The village was easy to see from afar, up here on the beginnings of the mountainside. All the little buildings clustered around the road, all the fields and fences stretching out in either direction, even the river running right to left through it all—Emund could see everything from up here. He couldn't believe how far up he was.

His home was still miles away. There was nothing to do but to begin walking.

Out here, the sun was shining brightly in his eyes, and getting ever higher in the sky as he went. But the air was cool, with a gentle breeze on it. Under other circumstances, it might have actually felt enjoyable. Maybe if he weren't so thirsty. He guessed that by the time he got down there, it would be nearly midday. Assuming the cultists didn't randomly reappear and drag him back to the cave.

Still, it was peaceful out here. It gave Emund more time to think.

This actually wasn't the farthest from home that he'd ever gone. A couple times, some years back, he and his father had joined some of the more sizable trade caravans going north through the mountain pass to Snowhawk, and stayed in the city for a week or so at a time. He remembered being so thrilled to see the three spires in person.

Now, that was the kind of adventure that he enjoyed in life. Going away from home, on purpose. He wasn't as much in favor of surprise adventures like this one.

Slowly, as the minutes went by, Tvalistead came closer into view. Nobody else was coming, nobody was leaving, at least along this road. Emund thought he could see people working in the fields outside the village, but they looked like little dots. They probably couldn't see him in turn yet.

He needed to work out what he was going to say to his father. He could see it now: 'Hello, sorry about being away, I just got dragged off in the night by insane cultists who made me read an Elder Scroll.' It would almost be easier to pretend it hadn't happened at all. Perhaps he'd had too much to drink, or gotten lost in the woods. He wouldn't have nearly as much suspicion upon him then. It would sound more believable.

But he probably wasn't going to do that. He wasn't going to lie about this. Nine times out of ten, when people got attacked and didn't tell anyone, it came back to hurt them again later. And Emund had clearly already demonstrated that luck wasn't in his favor right now.

As he came down to the beginnings of the village, right where he could see the Whitefeather Inn up ahead, he had to force himself not to break into a run. His muscles were burning, his head was aching, his stomach was empty, his mouth was parched… all he wanted to do was get back inside the inn and relax.

It almost felt like normal, walking up to the inn's porch. Getting close to midday, about time for luncheon, and here Emund was. He could even see the distant shape of Picker sitting by the door.

Gods, did it feel good to see a friendly face.

Eventually, he couldn't contain himself. He ran the rest of the way to the porch, and bounded up the stairs. He was home safe again, finally. As he came up to the inn's dog, he held his arms out invitingly. "Picker! I'm home!"

But Picker didn't respond happily. She backed up onto her feet suddenly, letting out a low growl, ears down flat as she looked at him. A moment later, she whimpered loudly, and turned and ran off the side stairs of the porch.

Emund was left standing there by himself in front of the door. That was bizarre. And sort of disturbing. Did he still smell like cultist? That might've done it. He hoped not everyone was about to run away from him today.

He'd have to find Picker later and make amends. Scaring innocent pets wasn't his idea of a fun morning.

Still, there was nothing to do but head on inside. Emund swallowed, braced himself, and pushed open the inn's front door.

It was quiet in here. A couple of guests were at the tables—one he didn't recognize, and also that fancy merchant woman, Tsavina. She must've sent her assistant north to Snowhawk the night before. But that wasn't the main thing that had Emund's attention. His father was standing behind the counter, leafing through some papers, writing on another with a quill.

Oh, was it good to see him again. Emund never imagined he'd think that to himself, but yes. It was good to see his father right now.

He closed the door behind himself, and walked across the room. "Father," he said. "I'm very sorry about this."

The old man was still busy poring over his papers. Shipment invoices, or something like that. He looked up at Emund after a few seconds. "… What, now?"

Emund took a deep breath in. He didn't know how he was going to start this. It was probably best not to think it over too much.

"Father, I got attacked last night," he said. "There was a mask in the far back room, and I… I suppose I thought it was a good idea to put it on. Next thing I knew, some men in robes were dragging me out of the inn, and putting me on a cart to some cave up in the woods. I don't even know how I managed to escape, but that's why I was missing this morning. I think we should report this to the guards. They'll probably want to see the cave for themselves."

There. That was all of it. He let out a long, shuddering breath of relief. It hadn't been quite as hard as he'd expected, retelling all of that. If he included some more detail, it might even make for a good story.

His father stared at him, uncomprehending, for a few seconds longer. Then he asked, "I'm sorry, ah… who are you, exactly?"

Emund opened his mouth silently. This wasn't some kind of depraved jest. His father honestly wasn't recognizing him.

This had just gotten much, much worse than before.

"I'm Emund. You know me." It was so hard to keep his voice steady right now. But he could see the look in his father's eyes. There was only confusion. He had to try. "You know me, father. Please."

His father stared at him silently.

"You have a son," he said. He couldn't keep the desperation down any longer. "You have a _son!_ It's me!"

Nothing. More staring.

This wasn't working. Something was going on. Something magical, something that had happened with the cultists. They'd done something to him. He had to figure out how far the damage reached.

Emund turned around suddenly, and strode around the hearth to the far wall's tables. There was an awful feeling rising in his throat. He'd come back home, but was he home at all? Was it he, was it Emund, the sixteen-year-old Nord boy who'd lived here his whole life, was it _that person_ who'd come home?

"Tsavina," he said, approaching the merchant quickly. "Do you remember what we were talking about yesterday?"

The Nord woman was in the middle of sipping a mug of ale. She set it down and looked up at him blankly. "… Huh?"

Still nothing. This still wasn't working. This made no sense. This was a nightmare.

Emund went back to the counter. His hands were shaking, he could barely breathe, but he had to keep trying. He had to keep trying to get rid of… whatever this was.

His father was still standing there and writing on papers. Emund held out his hand and cleared his throat. "Excuse me. Would you mind lending me your quill?"

"Uh… All right," his father eventually said, holding it out to take, not quite looking Emund in the eyes. This was unreal. It didn't even add up.

Unless it did.

With his hands as unsteady as this, Emund could barely even hold the quill at all. But he still turned one of the papers around, and scrawled his name on the top. Then he turned the paper back, pointed to his name, and asked, "Could you… please read this?"

His father looked down at the paper, where Emund's finger was pointing to the shaky letters of his name.

A few seconds went by. Nothing happened.

Emund slapped the quill down on the counter, hard, and turned around. Wiped his hands over his face. At some point, his eyes had started welling up with tears—that was how bad this was. Nobody could recognize him now. This was pure madness. His life had been erased from everyone's minds.

But it was worse than that. The cultists had done something to him, and now he was nothing to everybody. He was a nameless… thing. Not even a person. Picker had known that much. She'd run away from him, because he'd looked like a person, but he wasn't one. He was something else now.

Emund balled up his fists, and let out a horrible scream.

The people in the inn were looking at him now. But they weren't reacting. They were just sitting there, like they didn't even know what to think. Emund didn't know what to think, either. He couldn't stop the tears running down his face right now. What else was there for him to do?

And he was thirsty. Gods damn it all, he was thirsty. On top of everything else.

He turned back towards the counter, blundered his way past, got himself down the stairs. Down to his living space, in the cellar. Where he lived and slept amid all the crates and barrels and sacks. It was the only place he could think of to go for this.

No one else was waiting for him down here. Emund took a brief look around to see if anything had changed.

As far as he could tell, nothing had been moved. This was still his home. So it wasn't like the flow of Time had changed itself to exclude him entirely. He still had a bed down here. He also had some bottles of ale sitting on the table, so he went and opened one of those, and drank it dry in one go. Yes, he was that thirsty. The ale was cool, it was strong, it quenched his thirst. It worked.

And he really didn't mind if it dulled his thoughts at all. That wasn't much of a curse right now. He was seeing his whole life fall out of everyone's view. That was where things were.

Emund felt sick. Maybe drinking all the ale that quickly had been a mistake.

After a moment, he staggered over to his bed, and sat down on it heavily. Laid his head in his hands, and just tried to think.

This was all horrible. But Emund couldn't give up. He'd never been particularly close to many of the people of Tvalistead, but right now, he was acutely, horribly aware that he was entirely alone.

There was no one for him to count on but himself. If he gave up on life, no one would come to rescue him, because no one remembered that he even existed.

So he had to get himself back into the world. That was the idea. He had to undo whatever had been done to him. Seeing as nobody even… knew his name anymore, that was going to be interesting.

He couldn't believe Picker had run away from him. Somehow, that stung the worst of all.

After a while, Emund lifted his head up, and looked around. The room was as quiet and empty as ever. He wasn't any further along for ideas.

Except that the mysterious gray mask was sitting on the bed next to him.

The one with the blue markings down the middle, the one he'd been wearing before. It was just there, as though it had been dropped in place. For some reason, it seemed to be a little sleeker around the edges than before. Maybe it was trying to look nice for him.

Emund laughed. He couldn't help but laugh. The mask was just going to reappear at his side whenever he discarded it, then? Was that it? If it was, then the mask was now the only thing that could keep him company.

But all right. Apparently, presumably, by whatever twisted logic governed this whole thing, he was supposed to have the mask on his person. There must have been some reason for that. This wasn't just an aimless exercise in loneliness.

So now he had to think about what the mask was for. Besides helping people survive reading Elder Scrolls. That hadn't even done anything useful.

He'd originally found the mask in one of the guest rooms. It must have belonged to someone then, too. There must have been a guest to put it there. Emund couldn't remember who it'd been.

He couldn't remember.

The previous owner of the mask had suffered from this exact same loss. They'd been unrecognizable. Impossible to remember the identity of.

And then when Emund had put the mask on himself, the cultists had come for him, and… thought he was someone else. They hadn't simply failed to identify him as a person. They'd successfully identified him, but only as the wearer of the mask.

This was starting to make more and more sense. Not in a good way, but it was making sense.

The first thing Emund did was to prepare himself. He got out of his clothes, washed off in the basin, shaved his face smooth—even if nobody would recognize him anyway, he disliked the feeling of stubble on his face—then put on another outfit and started packing.

He'd probably have to go to a big city. Maybe the mages in Winterhold could help him. There had to be someone who would want to help him out. But there wasn't any point in staying here in Tvalistead. Nobody knew of Emund's existence anymore. They couldn't help him.

Even the Winterhold thing was a desperate hope. He had no idea what it was like in Winterhold. Besides cold, and expensive.

For now, he just loaded some travel supplies into a haversack—food, waterskin, more clothes—and slung it over his shoulders along with a travel cloak. He was wearing practically everything he owned at this point. It really wasn't much. He'd never gone out on any kind of journey by himself before.

On the bright side, he probably didn't have to worry about being mauled by any bears or anything. Going by Picker's reaction to him, any animals would just run away.

The last thing Emund put on was the mask. He figured he was ready for whatever terrible thing it would do to his mind this time. But nothing came. He simply fitted the smooth fabric on over his face and head, and that was that. It was pleasantly warm underneath.

For some reason, he found himself worrying that this was going to make his hair sweaty. He didn't know why he even cared about that. He just did.

But still, this was it. Emund took a deep breath, and went on his way back upstairs. Back into the main room of the inn.

Everything upstairs was the way it had been before. Everyone was where they'd been seated, doing what they'd been doing. Must not have taken that long for him to get ready, after all. His father was even still working on those papers. Probably just carefully ignoring Emund's signature on them.

As he passed by, Emund said, "All right. You have no idea who I am, but I'll see you later. And you'll see me too. And it'll be just fine."

"What do you mean?" His father turned and focused on him. And this time, it wasn't in sheer unfocused confusion, but plainly overt suspicion. "What are you here for? Are you asking me for something?"

"No, I'm sorry. Never mind. Just… have a good day." What a terrible farewell that was. But Emund couldn't exactly undo it. He just walked back around the hearth, and straight out the front door.

Tvalistead was just as bright and sunny as before. Emund closed the door swiftly, before he could think too much about what it meant. He had to focus on the road ahead. Make his way north through the pass, and then—

" _You!_ "

The voice came from just beside him, as a deep, vicious growl. Emund's heart jumped. He didn't even have time to react. The moment he began to turn towards the sound, a huge armored elbow slammed into his face.

There was no resisting. Pain exploded through his nose, his eyes, his mouth. The next thing he knew, a hand had grabbed onto his throat, and something hit him in the back of the legs. Everything went spinning. The wooden porch slammed into his back. He couldn't breathe, couldn't even think.

A boot stepped firmly onto his chest, and stayed there. At the same time, something very sharp laid itself against the side of his neck.

It had all happened in… two seconds, if even that. Incredibly fast. Only now was Emund able to focus on his assailant.

And his assailant was Gelther. The gray-haired man-at-arms, wearing all his layered light armor, standing tall with a long steel blade in hand, the cold edge resting on Emund's skin. He looked down at his masked prey with a mirthless smile.

"Got you."


	9. By Shor's Will

Morndas, 7:56 PM, 25th of Last Seed, 1E 173

Spire of Shor

Things were starting to feel real once again. The nightmare was a reality. She had to make her peace with that.

It had been a week. Exactly a week, to the day, plus twelve hours or so—Yngva didn't have a clock in here with her. But by the gods, could she not forget how long it had been. An entire week, and she'd spent nearly all her waking hours in here, in this far corner of the city, sitting in the temple of her parents' new overseer.

For their existences had moved to Sovngarde, no doubt. Perhaps at this very moment, they were drinking and feasting with the likes of Ysgramor and Gormlaith. Or perhaps they were preoccupied, still remembering that they had left Yngva behind.

And they truly had. This, in Shor's sanctuary, was the closest that Yngva could be to her mother and father now.

The hall was comfortably spacious, made all of the same gray stone, warmly lit by braziers along the walls. The ceiling was vaulted high above, running from front to back in a continuous arch. At the far end of the room stood a giant stone statue, twice the height of any living man, carved in the likeness of a bearded warrior with a ragged gash torn across his breastplate. He looked down upon the rows of pews beneath with an expression of serene wisdom, and yet tinged with the eternal pain of sacrifice.

It was almost entirely empty in here. The only sound was the faint, distant noise of the city outside. Yngva sat at the very rear pew, gazing up at the statue of Shor across the room.

Sitting at the front had required her to crane her neck uncomfortably to look at it. She didn't need that pain on top of all the rest.

When Yngva had originally arrived here, immediately after… receiving the news, the statue had been the very first thing to catch her eye. She had visited here before, of course. The contents of this sanctuary had been far from an unknown sight. But this statue of Shor had been standing here, just as towering, just as impassive as now, and it had looked like the most foreboding thing in the world. Like she was looking at the real killer of her parents, the one who had condemned them to this life of mortal suffering and death.

That was a phrase she could use now, was it not? 'Killer of her parents.' Even having accepted the reality that they were gone, Yngva still couldn't grasp all of those small changes.

The narrative, of course, was that Shor had sacrificed himself in Mundus in order to create life on Nirn as it was known now. Every likeness Yngva had seen of his person had featured the same massive wound in his chest, the same sign of a cruel and literally visceral demise. But sitting here, contemplating the nature of this sacrifice, Yngva had yet to answer for herself the question of why. Why had Shor given his life to such a cause as this? Why would he bleed, suffer, extinguish himself in this world, only to give rise to more bleeding and suffering and extinguishing still? It made so little sense.

This was what Yngva's thoughts had dwelt upon, between the aching bouts of persisting grief. And oh, had she been feeling those. After this week, she wasn't sure she had any tears left to shed at all.

A door at the room's far end opened. Out walked a man in hooded red robes, adorned with gilded embroidery in the outline of a cuirass and pauldrons. A young man, perhaps ten years Yngva's elder, with smooth blond hair tied back neatly, and plain but gentle features. Etrand, priest of Shor. He had been Yngva's main source of company this past week.

Fortunately, he had largely kept his distance. No doubt, he had other matters to attend to, in his routine maintenance of the Spire of Shor and its affairs. Yngva personally didn't care. She hadn't attended the services here before, and she wasn't very interested to start now.

But still, here he was, coming out into the hall and walking down alongside the pews. He had a bundle of sackcloth under one arm, no doubt carrying some important equipment or other.

Yngva did her best to compose herself. She'd been lost in her thoughts for quite a while, sitting right here in this pew, ignoring nearly all her surroundings. … Long enough for her rear end to become quite sore without her noticing. She tried not to make her shifting in place too obvious.

Etrand walked all the way down to her, his footfalls reverberating softly through the empty space of the room. He stopped beside the next pew ahead, laid a hand on its edge, and asked, "Have you had dinner yet?"

She shook her head silently.

"The temple will be closing in an hour," Etrand added.

When had she last eaten, anyway? It might not have been since this morning. And in truth, she did feel the hunger—not the thirst, since there was fresh clean water directly outside the temple. Her thoughts had simply been elsewhere.

Yngva had never needed to go more than a day without eating. She considered herself incredibly lucky for this, for even in such prosperous years as these, Skyrim's common folk were not immune to famine. But she had heard stories of what hunger did to people, how it changed them when they felt it for long enough. Perhaps her own mounting hunger would do something to force her out of her own thoughts.

The priest moved in to Yngva's pew, and sat down beside her silently. They were the only occupants of this sanctuary—the two of them, and the statue of Shor.

"Here," he said, and handed Yngva the sackcloth, unwrapping it in the same motion. Inside was… a turnover. A freshly baked pastry of rich, flaky dough, folded and sealed in a semicircle over a substantial filling, still steaming hot from the oven. Its aroma was one of savory meats and spices.

To Oblivion with hunger. She was eating this right now.

A moment later, Yngva was holding the turnover by the cloth wrapping, and a third of it was gone. Her palate was awash in succulent beef, grilled vegetables, melted cheese—this was fine food. This was very fine food. Oddly, despite herself, Yngva couldn't help but contemplate whether her hunger was causing her to believe it to be of higher quality than it truly was. But that seemed unlikely. It looked very good.

Meanwhile, Etrand spoke to her. "You are a strong person, in more senses than one. I will not see you starving yourself in this temple."

"Thank you," Yngva said, once she had swallowed her present mouthful. "Where did you get this?"

Etrand shrugged, as though it were self-evident. "The kitchens, of course. We do make more than bread. Brother Istral was making these for the officers, so I asked him to prepare one extra."

That was a trait that, presumably, was unique to Snowhawk. Much like the dragon-worshipping capital it had replaced, the city's temples doubled as fortresses, and in this case, were garrisoned by the Snowhawk city guard. Yet another reason Yngva didn't come here often. It felt too foreboding.

"I feel sick," she said suddenly, putting the food back down in her lap. "This… My conscience isn't leaving me alone. My parents are dead, and I'm enjoying a dinner."

Etrand made a contemplative noise. "Let me ask you this, Yngva. Do you suppose your parents would have wanted you to never enjoy a dinner again without them?"

Yngva stopped herself, and thought that over. She was going to begin shedding tears again, if things continued along this course. How many tears could one person produce in a day? … And yet, then again, what would her parents indeed have wanted her to do at this moment?

"Damn it all," she muttered, before forcing herself to resume eating her dinner.

The rest of it continued in silence. Etrand sat beside her patiently, looking up at the statue of Shor, as she finished the pastry in short order. There was a bit of meat and vegetable juice collected along the bottom, along the flat edge of the semicircle. She ate that part in one long row, tilting it slightly to keep the liquid from running out. It was the best part of all.

Or perhaps the best part of all was that she no longer felt hungry. She hadn't realized how unpleasant that had begun to feel.

When it was all done, she turned to Etrand and asked, "What were you going to do if I'd turned this down? Be treated to a delicious leftover dinner?"

The priest smiled softly. "Actually, I was going to leave it with you, in case you changed your mind."

Yngva nodded. That did indeed make sense, particularly for as virtuous a priest as he. In any case, she stood up slowly, and held out the sackcloth for him to take. "Well, you can have this. I need to get some water."

"As you wish." Etrand stood as well, and accepted the empty cloth, folding it back up under his arm to carry. "Remember, we are closing in an hour. A little bit less than that, now. The guards may have a night shift, but I need to sleep."

Yngva left the sanctuary without replying. Nothing sufficiently witty was coming to mind to answer that remark with.

There were two successive pairs of doors in between the sanctuary and the city outside, separated by a small antechamber. The inner doors were already open, so Yngva proceeded to the outer ones and pulled them open instead. Thus did she leave Shor's temple, and enter the city of Snowhawk.

It was like surfacing from underwater, how instantly the sensations of the outdoors hit her. There was a wide-open square directly before her, paved with smooth flagstones, surrounded by high stone buildings on all sides. The sky above was a dim blue with orange on the western horizon, and the square below was lit with a scattering of torches. All sorts of people were passing through—tired laborers at the end of their workdays, armored guards patrolling in pairs, tradesmen and nobles in fancy robes. The evening in Snowhawk was very much alive.

Above the rooftops ahead, Yngva could clearly see three structures standing tall, catching the very last of the day's sunlight. Directly ahead was the bell tower of the Snow Palace. At equal distances to its left and right, farther back in the city, were the outlines of the Spire of Kyne and the Spire of Dragons. She could just barely make out the single Elderwood tree growing from the Spire of Kyne's tower roof.

But what she needed was right here in the square itself. Right in the center of it all, there was a fountain of ornately sculpted stone tiers, constantly flowing with clear drinkable water. Yngva ignored the crowds, walked straight up to it, and dipped her hands into the falling stream.

As always, the water was icy cold, which was perfectly acceptable. Yngva relished the invigorating feeling of fresh cleanliness that that brought on. Once her hands were sufficiently rinsed, she cupped them together and let the water pool up, for her to drink from. The first mouthful was enough to stop her thirst in its tracks. She took several more for good measure.

She really needed to thank Brother Etrand at some point. Without him, the only company in the temple would have been that great terrible statue at the far end. She'd been alone with that statue—and her thoughts—for this entire week, and upon reflection, all it had proven was that she was indeed deeply hurting from her loss. Etrand had given her a lavish beef turnover. One of these had clearly helped more than the other.

When she returned to the sanctuary, it was just as empty and quiet as before. If this place was indeed closing in just under an hour, then she would enjoy the remaining minutes as they came. Sitting here by herself wasn't a happy experience, it had to be conceded, but it was still preferable to sitting at home surrounded by reminders of her parents' lives.

At this point in her life, Yngva didn't know what she was going to do. Take up some sort of work of her own, presumably. She hadn't considered herself ready for that.

Perhaps it would be prudent to pray to Shor for her future. All she had to do was to remember what the prayers were supposed to consist of. So far, she hadn't done particularly much of that in here.

Yngva took a deep, slow breath in, and closed her eyes.

Suddenly, the doors opened behind her. She immediately twisted around in her pew to see who was coming through.

Two cloaked and hooded figures were walking into the sanctuary, walking side by side. Yngva didn't recognize either of them—at least, until they emerged into the torchlight and lowered their hoods. On the left was a woman, round-faced and soft-looking, with graying hair in long tousled curls. On the right was a man, stern and thin-lipped, with black hair and stubble of roughly the same length.

Jarl Idrun the Clever, and her housecarl Felras. Apparently, Yngva's prayers had been answered before they had started.

Yngva opened her mouth silently, looking from one of them to the other. If propriety demanded that she say something right now, the details were lost on her. She simply elected to stand up from her pew, so as to greet the Jarl more properly.

"Oh, don't get up on my account," Idrun said, waving a hand as she bustled her way inside. "We could be here for a little while."

The younger Nord sat back down slowly, smoothing out her dress on the way. She absolutely was not prepared to look her best for a moment with the Jarl. Whatever else this encounter would amount to, it was bizarrely out of place.

"The temple closes in an hour," she replied, then immediately winced. That had felt like a lame observation before she had even said it.

Idrun chuckled as she circled around to sit down in the pew herself, just by Yngva's right side. "Oh, we'll manage, I'm sure."

Meanwhile, Felras stood on guard by the doorway, saying nothing. His cloak was drawn tight around his chest, but he was doubtlessly armed and armored underneath.

"Well," Yngva said. She didn't know how to finish this sentence either. Her heartbeat was quickening now. She was sitting next to the Jarl of Snowhawk. Being the child of a Thane did not prepare her for this experience in the slightest. Not everyone in her position was considered by their Jarl to be an obstacle.

"I was truly sorry to hear about your parents," Idrun began. She had such a gentle, motherly tone of voice. It was almost easy to forget that she was in charge of one of Skyrim's nine holds. Or that they weren't even supposed to care for each other. "I heard you had been spending quite a bit of your time here since then. I'm glad to finally have a moment to see you."

Was the Jarl's schedule truly that demanding? Perhaps it was. Late evening was no time for a meeting such as this, unless Idrun had been busy all day before now. That much made sense.

But still, that wasn't the main concern. And Yngva didn't want to struggle with pleasantries any longer. Not with anyone, and certainly not the Jarl. So she simply asked: "What are you doing here?"

Idrun nodded in appreciation, leaning forwards to rest an elbow on her knee. It gave her a vaguely conspiratorial appearance. "I did want to offer you my sympathies," she murmured. "But there is more at hand than that. I'm here to offer you something more. I'm not sure if it'll make you feel any better, but at this point, I'd just like to be able to say I told you."

Yngva frowned. Whatever this was, it sounded like an opportunity. She couldn't help but wonder if people in important political stations had secretive conversations like this as a matter of course. But Jarl Idrun had never shown her any great warmth. This made no sense. "Hold on," she said. "What do you… what do you mean, exactly?"

In response, the Jarl asked, "Have you seen Hakind since you received the news?"

That was unexpected.

Yngva shook her head slowly. "No, I… I asked him to keep his distance for now. I…" She bit her lip. This was going to make her begin shedding tears again, she just knew it. "Didn't… want him to see me like this, so…"

"He loves you," Idrun said, softly. "He's been beside himself, wanting to help you, and not knowing how. I'm here today on his behalf."

"I thought he was the reason why you never want me around," Yngva said darkly. She couldn't bring herself to hide her bitterness any longer. She wanted to, but for how long could she ignore the rift between herself and this woman?

A long moment passed in silence. Idrun let out a contemplative sigh. "That's another thing for me to be sorry for, I suppose," she eventually replied. "I can't care simply for my family. My duty is to care for all of Hjaalmarch. And every time a jarl dies without a legitimate heir, the hold falls into chaos."

And that, indeed, was what this was about. As much as Yngva hated it, the gods had not given her the body she was meant to have. Even if she could put on a flawless appearance of a female, such that nobody would ever so much as wonder otherwise, it was only an appearance. Her parents had never minded, to be sure. But Jarl Idrun had a bloodline to maintain.

Yet Idrun went on. "You don't deserve to be made to suffer for that. And neither does Hakind. All I want to offer you today is hope. You have a long, bright future ahead of you, and if I can help you see it through… if nothing else, it's what my son would want."

That explained things well enough. The offer wasn't for Yngva's own well-being. It was to prevent Idrun from losing control over her son. Nevertheless, here Yngva was, being approached by the Jarl herself, and there was little to do but play her part. "All right. So let's hear what your hope consists of. What do you have for me?"

There was a brief pause, as Idrun stared into space momentarily. No doubt, she was recalling some speech she had already outlined to herself. "Your parents were killed while exploring a ruin in Hjaalmarch known as the Gates of Dusk. We know very little about it, besides that it's now empty of whatever treasure it contained. For a long time, nobody knew its location—even its existence, I'm told, was only referred to in passing in ancient missives. But last month, an anonymous traveler left my steward a book detailing not only how to find the Gates of Dusk, but a great deal of other information as well."

Yngva nodded slowly. This was a great deal to take in. But for now, she would need to remain in the moment. "You think this traveler is the culprit?"

"It would make some amount of sense. Your mother naturally took the opportunity to explore the ruin herself. But someone already wanted the treasure, and evidently waited for her to pave the way inside. As the Jarl of Snowhawk, I don't care in the slightest what the treasure was. I have no use for it. But if you can follow this trail yourself, perhaps you can seek justice for your parents' fate."

With that, the Jarl reached beneath her cloak, and pulled forth a small leather-bound book. Yngva took it in hand instantly, and examined both sides. The front cover was adorned with a small black icon, showing three interweaving, tapering shapes, two curved, one straight. It almost resembled a stylized flower, or a flame.

"No, I don't know what the icon means," Idrun said, before Yngva could ask. "But I'm sure whoever left the book wasn't worried about it being traced back to them."

Yngva opened the book to its first page, which was blank. The second one was covered in text, which at a glance appeared to be about the geography of northern Hjaalmarch. Even by her standards, it looked like dense reading.

And perhaps this should have had her already considering how she might learn more. But there lay something obvious to decide first—was she going to accept this book now, or hand it back to the Jarl and walk out? Both were tempting. She was far from eager to refuse justice for her parents, but it wasn't as though avenging their deaths would allow her to move on with her life. That challenge remained for her either way.

In past times like this, Yngva often liked to ask her parents what they would do in her situation. Now that door would be closed to her for the rest of her life.

She looked up ahead. The statue of Shor was still staring down at her.

"Oh, gods damn it all, I'll do it." She slapped the book down onto the pew beside her. It made a fairly loud noise. "I'll go on this grand thing. It's not like I'm doing anything better with my life."

Idrun nodded slowly. She didn't smile. She simply looked on as before. "In that case, I will support you however I can. Try to keep safe."

"Thank you," Yngva said, without thinking. "… Was there anything else?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. In the event that you accepted, Hakind wanted me to give you this."

The Jarl reached beneath her cloak once again, and this time came up with a dagger. An ornately engraved steel weapon, with a lustrous black leather handle, and a matching sheath. Yngva took it in hand and drew the blade momentarily, just long enough to observe the intricate geometric patterns etched along its sides, before sheathing it once again.

"I'm sure he knows how many daggers I have already," she said flatly.

"Hakind seemed to think that you could keep it on your person while on your various travels. And that one day, when you're out there facing some great enemy in a fight for your life, when you're seemingly defeated and all hope is lost, you could pull the dagger out from your sleeve and slay your foe by surprise."

Yngva stared. "Is that how he phrased it to you?"

Idrun nodded mirthfully.

Despite everything, despite all she'd felt today, Yngva couldn't help but laugh. This was Hakind, indeed. This was his wise, prescient influence in Yngva's life. "Oh, bless his heart. I suppose if I'm meant to fight the people who defeated my parents, I'll need all the help I can get."

"Oh, don't worry. If you get that far, you'll have all the help you can _use_."

And once again, Yngva was reduced to staring blankly. She wasn't sure what that remark even meant.

Idrun waited for a moment, then stood up. "I have the rest of my day's work to take care of, so I'll be on my way. Look after yourself, Yngva. Your life is in your hands now."

With that, she exited the pew, and joined her housecarl on the way out of the sanctuary. No further words were spoken between them.

Yngva looked down at herself. She had a mysterious book at her side, and a new dagger in her hand. This was what she was beginning her journey with.

Then she looked up at the statue of Shor. It was a strangely beautiful thing. Grievously, mortally wounded, in incredible pain, but still strong, always strong. That strength was such a mystery, even now. Perhaps it was something that the races of men were simply meant to have.

Her parents were still gone. Nothing she did was going to change that. But it was as Jarl Idrun had said—her life was now in her own hands. If there were ever a time for her to prove her coming of age, it had to be now.

She collected her things, and walked out of the temple. There was work to do.


	10. The Twenty-Three

Sundas, 7:31 PM, 24th of Last Seed, 1E 173

Mzulft

The debate hall was absolutely filled. Each semicircular ring of seats bore host to a complete line of Dwemer citizens, broken only where the stairs passed through. It always was like this, when Clan Chief Harsinc was scheduled to speak. Everyone with the barest inclination in the affairs of Mzulft would want to see this firsthand.

And Dalzren was right in the middle of it all, flanked on either side by citizens from other domains. If the room was filled to capacity, that meant there were just over one thousand people in here, but Dalzren knew the names of not even a tenth of them. They were people she simply never worked with.

Not that it mattered. Harsinc was already walking out onto the stage. Even from afar, he was instantly recognizable for his singularly ornate robes of office. There was no black to be seen on them, only gold inlaid with jewels, from his circlet all the way down to his boots.

This was as it should have been. In this respect, Harsinc was emulating the aesthetic of the Dwemer automaton. His golden attire evoked the appearance of decorated true alloy plating, as would be seen on their finest machines. And there was no higher praise than to be compared to a device of pure reason.

In all frankness, however, it was good that his attire spoke for him so well, because Harsinc wouldn't have looked like much of a ruler otherwise. He was only forty years of age—younger than Dalzren herself. The few times they had been very nearby one another, Dalzren was always surprised by how youthful the Clan Chief looked. Round eyes, smooth skin—even his beard wasn't particularly long. Nothing about him suggested that he had earned any great power at all, let alone the right to command the entire freehold of Mzulft.

And yet he had.

"My fellow citizens," he called out, and it was as though he were speaking into Dalzren's ear. Such were the acoustics of the debate hall. "I bid you thanks for joining me on this evening. May we remain true to the ways of logic as we proceed into today's discussion."

And so it began. Dalzren leaned forwards in her seat as she listened.

"As Dwemer of Mzulft, we live a proud and prosperous life. We have the greatest array of research and development resources out of any of the freeholds. Our strategic position, on the border between Falmereth and Dwemereth, gives us a greater diversity—culturally, technologically, even botanically—than any other city. But there are many things that we may take for granted. Many things that, because of the very prosperity we enjoy, we simply assume to be part of life. And no offense, Chief Nevenis, but I'm not just talking about your quarterly harvest."

A ripple of light laughter ran through the room. Chief Cultivator Nevenis, in the front row, raised his hand to speak.

" _No offense_ , Clan Chief, but you shouldn't take that for granted anyway."

And the laughter rebounded twofold. Only a domain chief could publicly talk back to Harsinc in that fashion and get away with it.

"Fair enough." Harsinc smiled. "But there are many things we do take for granted. As children, we are educated in not only the logical axioms, but also the empirical truths that have been discovered for us by generations past. As adults, we pursue our careers with the freedom to engage in whatever suits us—and we start families of our own with confidence that the outside world will not interfere. These are all vital pillars of our lives and our culture, and we Dwemer alone have earned them. And yet whether we know it or not, we frame all of our interactions with all the other races of Tamriel within our own exclusive perspective."

At this point, Harsinc reached into his robes, and drew forth a flat, elongated reddish object. It took Dalzren a moment to realize that the object was actually a leaf. A single leaf, as from a plant, although it matched no description that Dalzren knew of.

"Last week, I met with an Ayleid diplomat from the White-Gold Tower in Cyrodiil. She wanted to open a regulated trade route between her city and ours—not the world's most complicated request, and not the first that we've established. It would offer us not only the Ayleids' refined crafts, but also access to an entire kingdom's array of plant and animal life. An entire kingdom's! As a token of the offer's potential, she gave us a sample of this." He held up the leaf higher, for emphasis. "The viper bugloss leaf. A powerful alchemy reagent, one with exceptional curative properties, and one that has never grown north of the Jerall Mountains. We were offered this and much more, in exchange for the crafts that the Dwemer race is known for.

"But before we could even get to the details of how to work the trade deal out to our ideal preference, she presented me with a far more basic issue: Her caravans couldn't travel freely through Falmereth without fear of reprisal from the Nords. As Chief Transactor Meziri has noted, while her Domain of Commerce regulates trade effectively both within Mzulft and with outside parties—yes, I see you, Meziri, thank you—" He pointed to another Dwemer in the front row, who waved happily in reply. "While this is the case in Mzulft, the legal protections afforded by Nord territory apply only to the Nord people. By High King Harald's own laws, his guards and enforcers are not obligated to aid any members of any other race."

The room was deathly quiet. This was how they showed disapproval in the debate hall—by giving no reaction whatsoever. Dalzren certainly shared the sentiment. But Harsinc continued to speak, and so she continued to listen.

"Now, this is far from being a new concern. The Nords living throughout Falmereth have never had a warm history with any Dwemer freehold. Is this the product of poor thinking, on their part? Conventional wisdom holds that the Nord race is simply too brutal and relentless to negotiate with. The relation between our peoples, historically, has been characterized by a complete absence of diplomatic contact. But therein lies the single greatest obstacle to the growth of Mzulft to its full potential. So let us think on this."

He paused momentarily, to stow the viper bugloss leaf back in his robes, before holding his empty hands out wide. A bit of a peculiar gesture, perhaps. But in fairness, he clearly didn't have anywhere better to put the leaf right then.

"We Dwemer approach one another for commerce with a sensible, logical outlook. We perceive a need for a good or a service, and we provide that service, in order to obtain whatever we need ourselves. Using that system, we've built stable, self-sustaining economies in each and every freehold. But the Nords are too proud, history shows, to admit even that we have anything they may need. They act not based on logic, but on ideology. And while we readily dismiss that as an inferior mode of thinking, it is still theirs. If we ever wish to become more than what we are, we must respect their point of view."

More silence ensued. At this point, Dalzren was unsure where Harsinc's speech was meant to be going. If this was all to encourage the Dwemer of Mzulft to believe the Nords were nice people, it was missing quite a lot of supporting evidence.

But still, Harsinc continued to speak, and so Dalzren continued to listen.

"Now, let me be clear. I'm not asking us to suddenly abandon the tenets that have brought the Dwemer people so far. Respect is a fundamentally different notion than agreement. Respect, after all, is the keystone of our conduct in this very debate hall, and this place wouldn't exist if we all agreed with one another." Harsinc paused. "Basically, what I'm saying is that we can speak to the Nords as peers without submitting to the divine virtues of Shor."

There were a few uneasy chuckles throughout the room. It was a little worrying, perhaps, that Harsinc felt the need to clarify that in the first place.

"For all practical purposes, what I'm talking about today is purely an economic opportunity. We need to open a dialogue with the Nords in order to further the prosperity of Mzulft, and we need to do it while respecting that they think differently than we do. Approaching them in their own cities has only ever been taken as an affront. So to remedy this, I propose that we send a diplomatic party to the White-Gold Tower, and allow the Ayleids to mediate between our people and the Nords. They, when they feel ready, will be free to send diplomats of their own."

Well, that was… truthfully, much more reasonable than Dalzren had expected. She found herself breathing a sigh of relief. More likely than not, the same feeling was being shared by the majority of the others present.

"We Dwemer have always seen the world according to rules of logic and sensibility. But we're not alone in Tamriel. And while our history with other-minded races has been filled with contention, there is hope for all of us to have a brighter future. All we need to do is open our minds, and take it."

Harsinc brought his hands together, and nodded once. "With that, I give the floor to Chief Administrator Manza, to take some questions. Thank you all, and may we remain true."

As he walked off the stage, another Dwemer stepped up from the front row and took his place. This one was a much older mer, and much more understated in dress. For one thing, he was wearing actual black. The Chief Administrator was the Clan Chief's right hand in managing the freehold. He was also the one to bear the public response to the Clan Chief's decisions. This would be interesting.

"All right," the older Dwemer said, before the entire room went up with raised hands.

Two hours later, Dalzren entered the doors of her home with the last of her energy for the day. She hadn't even said a single word, during her entire time in the debate hall, and it had still exhausted her to sit through. This always happened when she stayed for the entire scheduled time. Now she wanted nothing but to rest.

As she leaned back against the closed door, she saw her son, Amalest, sitting there at the dining table and watching her curiously.

"I'm home," Dalzren announced, with just a trace of a smile.

"How did it go, mother?"

"Oh… The Clan Chief had some interesting ideas for us. As usual." As everything stood, Dalzren wanted little more than to go to her room and get out of her domain uniform. But the 'little more' in that idea included looking after her son. It always would. So instead, she walked over and sat down beside him. "Have you finished your studies?"

"Yes, mother," Amalest replied wearily. "I was doing them when you left for your meeting. Remember?"

Dalzren paused. "… Yes, that was good of you. Is everything still going all right on that front?"

"I think so. I suppose I'll find out when I put it to the test." Her son smiled briefly, looking off into space, his mind elsewhere. "If last week is any indication, it'll be fine."

And that was true. He had passed his creative design test at the head of his class.

At the moment, Amalest was out of his student uniform. He'd put on one of his casual wear robes. The light green one that Dalzren had gotten for him the other month. It was nice to see him being comfortable in it.

He turned to her suddenly and asked, "So, what was the meeting about? If it's all right to ask." 

"Of course. Ah…" Dalzren had to collect her thoughts. She'd been sitting through far too much today. Harsinc had been talking to them, and…

Her son continued. "My peers are jealous sometimes. That I have a parent who cares to go to the debates. Astaris was saying some things about that."

Astaris. That would be one of the students in his year. Dalzren had heard about her quite often. A girl of high conscience, by the sound of it, and high intellect at that. Sometimes Dalzren wondered if her son would grow to take a deeper interest… but that was a thought for another time. She had a question to answer.

"Harsinc was talking about trade," she said. "At least, that was the most superficial practical effect of his speech. It was what most of the following questions were about. Arranging a secure trade route with the Ayleids, by negotiating passage through Nord territory. But there was a little more to it than that. Harsinc also made the claim that we shouldn't reject the Nords for their illogical ways of thought, as this interferes with our diplomatic prospects."

"And what do you think?"

Dalzren took a deep breath in and raised her eyebrows. "I think there's some merit to that idea. But it's not as though we're new to Tamriel. Have you ever heard of Hadras' Twenty-Three?"

Amalest shook his head blankly. "Is that a law of nature? Like Narsin's Three Laws of… Mundial Energy, or…"

"No, not quite," Dalzren chuckled. "Where are you for your history lessons, these days? Still on the First Era?"

Her son nodded quickly. "Yes. We've been learning a lot about the history of the freeholds. This… this isn't from the First Era, though. Is it?"

This would be interesting to navigate. Dalzren had never tried to share something of quite this nature with Amalest. But there had to come a time for it. It might as well have been now.

"No. And this isn't something that you're likely to hear about very soon. It's not often talked about. But settle in, because I have a story to tell you."

"All right." Amalest leaned his elbows forward onto the table, and looked directly at her. "Where does it start?"

What a good question. Dalzren thought that over for a long moment.

Then she began.

"Four hundred and eighty-eight years ago, in 315 ME, the Nord war-chief Ysgramor landed upon Falmereth's shores for the second time. He had landed once, before, along with many other men from Atmora. Thousands of them came and settled in this land. They lived side by side throughout the country with the Falmer, while we Dwemer remained in our freeholds. And there was peace, for a time.

"That changed when the Falmer saw fit to turn their weapons upon their Atmoran kin. The Night of Tears, it was called. Sun set on the northern city of Saarthal, and an army of Falmer swept through in the dark. The Atmoran soldiers on their walltops saw nothing, heard nothing, until the sky began to rain with arrows. Scores of them died without ever knowing that the peace was over.

"What unfolded was not a battle, but a slaughter. The Atmorans were far from defenseless, but they were too few, and unprepared. The Falmer tore the city gates down, and engulfed the Atmoran buildings with the fire of their arcane engines. And as the mothers and their children fled their burning homes, they ran straight into the dark army's blades. Only three Atmorans survived that night. Ysgramor, and his two sons. They vowed revenge for every life that had been taken from them. Reason was beyond them. Blood was their mission.

"And so they fled back north to Atmora. But when Ysgramor returned, in 315 ME, it was with five hundred tested warriors at his back, and many more to come. The Falmer were just as unprepared as the Atmorans themselves had been. One by one, the cities of the Falmer were erased, just as the Falmer had done to Saarthal. Ysgramor and his men lacked the sophistication of Dwemer machines or the power of Falmer lore, but they more than compensated for it in brutality. The Falmer were losing, and everyone knew it.

"It was in this time that we Dwemer saw our own future threatened. Ysgramor was creating a beast that would not lie down and rest. A war machine that thirsted for blood, to put Molag Bal's cursed to shame. When the Falmer were no longer there to fight, we knew, we would be next. So a meeting was held between the chiefs of all the freeholds, to decide what to do. In the end, Clan Chief Hadras of Raldbthar arranged to meet Ysgramor with a special envoy, as had never been made before. One that would make peace between our races a certainty.

"Hadras went to the city of Windhelm with twenty-two of the finest engineers and designers in Falmereth, two from each freehold. And there, they presented themselves to Ysgramor, with the offer of a tribute far greater than any gift of gold or cloth or stonework—they offered to share with the Atmorans our wealth of ideas. The principle of skepticism, the axioms of logic, the very pillars of our being. And to prove their worth, the engineers brought in device after device, automaton after automaton—not even a single weapon, nor a single piece of armor, but all the ways that our ideas could be applied to a life of peace. This, they offered, could be the future of Ysgramor's people. They would never need to fear famine or disease again, they would never be at the mercy of their gods' cruel whims. They would be masters of their own fate, as we are.

"The entire time that the works of our people were being presented, Ysgramor remained silent, observing the tribute from his throne. He studied each device without asking any questions, without voicing his thoughts. Only when we had shown all our gifts did he reply. And his reply: We were all blasphemers. Our very ways of thought made mockery of the gods and their sacrifices. And we had no place in his court, or in his kingdom.

"It could have ended there. But it did not. A week later, the sentries at Raldbthar saw a massive army marching over the horizon. Eight thousand men, with horses and siege engines, bearing the standard of Ysgramor. Closer and closer they crept, this great and terrible sea of soldiers, and just as they came within a mile of the city gates, they stopped.

"The minutes dragged on. Nothing happened. Ysgramor's soldiers stood in formation, and the sentries of Raldbthar stood and watched. Raldbthar had perhaps one thousand soldiers, twice as many automatons. All that protected them was the safety of their walls. They could only wait, for a battle that would not begin.

"Eventually, the soldiers stepped apart, a neat line down their middle. And along came their Clan Chief Hadras, in chains. Ysgramor was there with him. He brought Hadras out before his own men, in full view of Raldbthar's sentries. Forced him to his knees on the frozen ground. Raised his great mer-killing axe, and took off Hadras' head.

"He did the same for every one of the twenty-two engineers we had sent them. One by one, he marched them out into the open, among the bodies of their fallen friends—and killed them as our sentries watched. By the time it was done, there was a great patch of solid red on the ground, where their blood had all mingled together as one. There was nothing that the Dwemer of Raldbthar could do. If they attacked, their city would not survive the battle to follow. They could only stand and witness what was being done, in sheer abject horror.

"Ysgramor's army then turned and left, no doubt headed back for Windhelm. The scouts of Raldbthar later found that they had left behind the broken wreckage of all the devices they had been offered. It was a clear statement: The Atmorans would never be our allies. And if we dared to put a toe out of line, they would cut it off."

A brief pause ensued.

Amalest said, "We could have waged war on them for this. But I already know we didn't. Why not?"

"Because we're not like them. Because Ysgramor lost himself in his ever-burning need for vengeance, and the world became his enemy for it. Twenty-three Dwemer died at his hand, it is true. But they were not worth sending thousands more to join them in death. Raldbthar refused to move to retaliate, and the other freeholds followed its example. The Atmorans took this as cowardice. Had they accepted our gift of ideas, they would have seen it as wisdom. But they did not, and so while we live here in safety, the men now called Nords live at their gods' mercy."

A much longer pause followed. Amalest sat back in his seat and ran a hand over his brow.

"So why is this such an obscure event? It sounds like it shouldn't be."

That was a fair question. But Dalzren didn't have to hesitate to provide an answer. "Because it didn't start a war. I doubt the Nords even recorded it at all. That bit about Ysgramor being silent? According to what I've read, that was hearsay from a Nord observer at the time. We wrote it down, because nobody else would."

"How about that," Amalest murmured. "You know… I remember your bedtime stories for me being a lot nicer than this."

Dalzren smiled wryly. "Well, tomorrow, if you want, I can tuck you in with the story of the Lens of Variation."

"That story is terrible," he grumbled.

At moments like this, Dalzren truly was proud of her son. Ten years of age, and he already knew not to be impressed by works that failed to capture the spirit of history.

"Well, speaking of tucking in, I'd like to get to bed now myself." With that, she pulled Amalest close to give a kiss to his forehead, before pushing herself upright and starting off to her bedroom. "Good night!"

"Good night to you too," her son called after her.

That was a relief. The day was over. Amalest was doing well, she was doing well… everything was fine. Finally.

The first thing to be removed was the jewelry. The moment Dalzren had closed the door, she was already pulling off each individual piece, collecting them in her palm to deposit on her dresser. The next off were her boots. She sat down on the side of her double bed to remove those.

But then, she observed, there was something odd happening. Her right foot was starting to tingle. That wasn't a good sign. At best, it meant she'd had these boots on for too long. At worst…

She pulled her right boot off, and beneath, there was blood.

Her foot was a mangled, bloody mess, shredded and frayed at the ends, with loose skin hanging like a footwrap. It was all coming away from her.

Horror. It was horror. It was beginning. It had begun.

Then everything cracked apart, and the world spun away into darkness.


	11. Letters

Tirdas, 10:10 AM, 26th of Last Seed, 1E 173

Whitehorn Hall

"Oh, it's good to have you back, Hakind."

"It's good to have you back too, Yngva."

Yngva bounced down breathlessly onto her bed and started pulling off her training gear. The padded tunic, the armored gauntlets and boots, all of it. It had to go. She was feeling suddenly overheated, being back indoors.

Ten minutes ago, she had been in the midst of a wonderfully fast-paced sparring session, longsword in hand. The sweat had been beginning to accumulate on her then—on her back, under her arms, over her scalp. Now it was running everywhere. She would have to spend some time cleaning up from this.

But there was no better place to do it. This was her bedroom in Whitehorn Hall, the home she had grown up in. A long, spacious chamber, with a high arching ceiling, and three tall glass windows along one wall. Its contents were arranged in an evenly spaced sequence—one would enter through the door at the room's end, passing by her mirror and wardrobe, her desk and drawers, her bookshelves and chests, all bathed in soft cool light from the windows on the right. The walls were decorated with hanging green banners and curtains, the latter of which she always kept partially drawn so as not to light the room too brightly.

If one happened to glance out the windows on the way in, one would see a beautiful view of the city of Snowhawk. The upper portion of the Spire of Kyne, with the tree on top, was plainly visible in the distance.

At the room's far end, exactly opposite the door, was her bed, set sideways against the wall beneath a hanging mesh canopy, with a slight natural opening on the front. Behind the canopy was a giant wooden painted sigil of Hjaalmarch, mounted on the wall in the fashion of a hunting trophy.

It was a soothing space. Yngva had seen to that. Before now, she hadn't wanted to spend long in here, because of what it reminded her of. But at the moment, she was thinking of things a little differently.

Beside her, Hakind was removing his gear as well, except that he was still standing up. "It's been a week," he said. "I thought you could use it."

"Oh, yes, I'm certain that your motivation lay solely in the kindness of your heart." Yngva shot him a knowing grin, as she undid her gauntlets' buckles one after another. "I don't blame you for missing me. _I_ missed me."

Hakind tossed his own gauntlets onto the bed, then put his bare hands on his hips. "You think you're back, then?"

This gave Yngva pause. She glanced downward, not quite involuntarily. "I… To be honest, I'm not entirely sure what I'm coming back to. A grand undertaking of revenge? I never asked for that."

"Well, you don't have to do any of this." Hakind had already moved on to removing his tunic, but he kept talking anyway. "And what 'this' consists of is… entirely up to you. I just don't want to see your life grind to a total halt. You have so much of that life ahead of you."

"Don't talk to me like you're older than me. That's very strange-sounding."

Hakind snorted. "Do you realize how little a difference two years' gap will make, ten years from now? I'll be twenty-three, you'll be twenty-five, no one will care."

"And two hundred years from now, we'll both be in crypts somewhere. That's where we all end up." Yngva had moved on to her own tunic as well, by this point. She paused once more. "… Even my parents ended up in a crypt. Although in their case, they weren't properly buried in it."

"Was it actually a crypt? I thought it was just some, uh…" The younger Nord turned away and winced. "Sorry. I shouldn't even be asking."

"If you're curious, you can consult that," Yngva said, before pointing to the book on her nightstand. The one with the odd flower-like icon on it. "I've never seen a more comprehensive description of any location, let alone a near-forgotten ruin."

In the meantime, she focused on removing the rest of her outfit. The inner layers had been dampened to varying degrees with sweat. She used a wet cloth from the washbasin to wipe herself off as thoroughly as possible, then set about locating something to change into.

Fortunately, Hakind didn't see fit to bother her about her exposing herself. He had his own changing to take care of, in any case. And fortunately again, that was entirely doable, because Yngva's wardrobe included a few sets of clothing for Hakind's size.

The next minute or two passed in silence, as the two of them donned their new daily wear. In Yngva's case, this was a simple white blouse and a pale blue skirt. In Hakind's case, it was a long-sleeved shirt and trousers, both dark gray. At home, comfort prevailed over appearance.

"That's better," Yngva said, smiling just for a moment. "Have you looked at that book?"

"What? Uh…" Hakind glanced about the room blankly, before focusing on the book on the nightstand, and walking over to begin perusing it. He stopped after the first page, and looked up at Yngva once more with a flippant smile. "Yes, I have. I have looked at the book."

"Your mother gave that to me. Along with that very useful dagger. Thank you for that, by the way." The dagger, as it happened, was currently attached to her travel belt, which was stowed in her wardrobe. If she wanted a more immediate weapon, there was a sword propped against the wall by her bed.

"You're welcome," the younger Nord replied brightly, before frowning again at the book. "I don't know what this is. I just asked her to help you. If this is the starting point, then… so be it, right? Something's going on with the Gates of Dusk."

At that moment, three knocks sounded upon the bedroom door.

"Come in," Yngva called out instantly.

The door swung open. It was Drisa. The venerable steward of Whitehorn Hall, the guardian of Yngva in her parents' absence—the bearer of that fateful news, when it had come. The woman was standing there with a wicker basket in hand, its contents hidden by a bundled dark blue cloth.

"I made some cinnamon rolls if you'd like them," she said brightly.

Yngva and Hakind exchanged a brief glance.

"Yes, please," they both replied at the same time.

Drisa set the basket down on the low table by the mirror. There were plenty of flat surfaces among the room's furniture, but that was the closest by. "Let me know if there's anything else you need. I'm always here to help."

"It's appreciated," Yngva nodded brightly. She could already smell the freshly baked cinnamon scent on the air. As she spoke, she gave Hakind another look. "Truly, it is. Cinnamon rolls aren't easy to make."

"All things come with practice," Drisa replied breezily. "I'll leave you two to your business, then. Take care."

With that, the steward excused herself from the room, leaving Yngva and Hakind alone once again. To their business indeed.

Yngva immediately went to her cabinet and retrieved a couple of silver goblets, which she filled from a bottle of cool water. She already knew these cinnamon rolls were going to make them thirsty.

"She's good," Hakind murmured as he looked on. "My mother should pay her more."

Yngva put the bottle down on the cabinet, and pushed the stopper in with a thumb, and only then began to process what Hakind had just said. Her mind had been elsewhere. Thinking about pastries, she supposed. "Hm? … Right. Yes. Actually, is she going to continue being paid? Now that there's no longer a Thane in the home?"

Hakind crossed his arms and frowned. "If she's not, I'll be very upset."

"Mmm. That does seem to get results."

Yngva walked back to the low table by the mirror, passing by Hakind on the way, and giving him a casual kiss on the cheek without slowing down. This was what her life could be like, she reasoned. Her new daily life, in the absence of her parents. She would continue training, and perhaps studying, and enjoying life's many pleasures as they came.

She picked up the basket in one hand, and unwrapped the cloth covering with the other. There were half a dozen little cinnamon rolls in here, golden and glossy, still steaming and fragrant from the oven. Everything about them appeared to be absolutely delicious.

This was what her life could be like. So why didn't it feel good the way it was meant to? She was looking right at this delicious food, and—it wasn't even that she found herself apathetic to it. She wanted to enjoy it, without a doubt. But suddenly, she felt sick to her stomach in a way that she could scarcely even describe. That feeling wasn't welcome at all.

Still, she took one of the rolls for herself, and held out the basket for Hakind to take. "Here. Enjoy."

And that they did. The two of them ate their first of the half-dozen rolls in as pleasant a silence as the moment allowed. As pleasant as it could be, at least. Yngva took in the warmth and flavor without a word, then washed it down with a hefty swig of her goblet of water.

It had been truly kind of Drisa to go to the effort to prepare something as wondrous and esoteric as these. No doubt, this was in response to Yngva finally choosing not to spend her day in the Temple of Shor. And, it was worth noting, the cinnamon roll did taste delicious. A great deal of effort had clearly gone into it.

Yet there was that unpleasant feeling inside her. The taste of this food didn't deter it at all. Why hadn't the sparring session earlier perturbed Yngva so much, when this did? Both were a return to her usual life, but they weren't equal. She didn't quite understand that.

After they were done, Hakind asked, "So what comes next, now?"

Yngva took a breath in to answer… but no words came to her lips. She didn't know where to start with this. Her thoughts were still in disarray. But she was realizing, now, that she had truly no experience with investigating things of such a broad nature.

"I need help," she muttered. "Where are my parents when I need them? … Don't answer that. I know the answer is Sovngarde. Don't say it."

Hakind laughed aloud, a bit self-consciously. "I wasn't about to! No, I was about to say, uh… your parents might not be with us, but they did live here. And they were planning for you to grow up without a title of your own. So they must have had some sort of stockpile. Have you looked in their room yet?"

Yngva opened her mouth silently again.

No, she had not.

"Let's go," she said, and briskly walked out the door.

Outside was a corridor, running from left to right, across the rear of the house. Its far wall was dotted with windows overlooking the garden, but no doors. The near wall, however, was another matter. Its middle third was an open balcony, overlooking the glow of the ground floor's hearth, with a staircase descending from its farther side. And on the far end was another door, mirroring Yngva's own.

Yngva crossed the corridor without a word, and pulled the far door open. Her parents' door. She wasn't going to allow this to overwhelm her. She wasn't.

In terms of size and shape, this room was an exact mirror image of Yngva's. Its dimensions were just as long and tall and spacious, and it was composed of the same stone architecture, though with the windows on the left instead of the right—the view outside would show the Spire of Shor, not of Kyne. Such was the design of Whitehorn Hall. The two upstairs rooms were equal counterparts to one another.

But the contents of this room made Yngva's look pitifully plain. There was all the requisite furniture, just as in her own, but it was all of the finest artisanship, made with supple dark wood and stone, decorated tastefully with inlaid gold trim. The floor was covered by a vivid green and gold rug, woven with beautiful flowing patterns. The gold portions were actually a bit lustrous in the morning light.

And everywhere, there were items. Strange, exotic items, all throughout the room, some large, some small, some self-evident, some mystifying. There was a gigantic tapestry map of Tamriel hanging on the wall opposite the windows, marked with a few steel pins on notable sites. There was a Dwemer metal spyglass on a tripod, standing by the nearest window, aimed slightly upward. There were two ornate stone columns, nestled into the far corners astride the bed, each column bearing aloft a plain silvery sphere enclosed in a minimal, thin golden cage.

Every time Yngva had walked in here, she had felt like it was all too much for her to understand yet. Perhaps she would someday, when she was older, when she was experienced enough not to need the help. But she was only a child now, not an adult, not one who belonged in the presence of such magnificent tools and trophies.

And yet this room now belonged to nobody else.

Yngva walked through it slowly, gingerly, as though an errant step might cause her to disturb some sacred thing. The way her parents had left it all.

She could hear Hakind following her in. Neither of them spoke.

At the end of the room, of course, was the bed. An imposing double bed with a dark blue canopy, with a sigil of Hjaalmarch above, just as Yngva's own had—though this one was encircled by a bright orange ring of rippling flame. There were two nightstands, one for each side.

And on the left nightstand was a blank piece of paper. Or, not a piece of paper—an envelope, old and yellowed, face-down on the wood. And not blank, either. Yngva's name was written on it in small, neat text—but at a second glance, she realized that it wasn't her name. It was her birth name. Yngvi.

She had left that name behind years ago.

And it was written in her mother's handwriting.

Immediately, Yngva strode over and took the envelope in hand. Its folded face was sealed with the dark green wax of Hjaalmarch's office. She broke the seal open, reached inside… and pulled out a single, folded piece of paper, covered in much, much more text. A letter to her. Or as the wording dictated, a letter to _him_. To the son she had once been.

As she began to read the words, Yngva sat down on the bedside. Everything faded away but this message—and the avalanche of memories it began to bring back.

 _Yngvi,_

 _On the day of this writing, it is the 5_ _th_ _of Sun's Dusk, on year 157 of the First Era. You were born to me two days ago. I'm holding you in one arm as I write with the other. With luck, you will not need to read these words for a long time to come, but I wanted to write them down now._

 _If this letter has been presented to you, Yngvi, it means that I am either dead or missing. If it happened on my adventures, there is a chance that your father shared my fate. And so, let me begin by apologizing. This is a sad reality of the life of a Nord. In order to earn one's place in Sovngarde, one has to die before one's natural time. But that never softens the blow of leaving the world behind._

 _But here things are, and it is your turn to take on the challenges of life. I can only hope that this letter will ease the transition._

 _On that note, a few practical matters:_

 _If you haven't found it yet, there's a strongbox beneath the shrine to Akatosh, containing enough riches to provide for you for at least a few years. There's also a substantially larger chest hidden beneath the floor in the cellar, directly opposite the door. The contents of that should speak for themselves._

 _As of now, I keep my correspondence in the boxes next to the writing desk. Assuming I've continued that practice, look in the ones on top first. They're the newest. My network of contacts is ever changing, but those can help you begin making connections where I left off._

 _Contact the Jarl for anything else you need. You may not have inherited my title, but the memory of a Thane is not so easily forgotten._

 _At the time that you read this, I may be gone, but your life is still ahead of you. Don't dwell on the past any longer than you must. The world is a grand and dangerous place. It calls all of us to act in it. As you move forward, know that the time has come for you to follow your own heart above all. I will always be with you._

 _With love,_

 _your mother._

Yngva let her hands fall to her sides. She couldn't even begin.

At some point, Hakind had come over and leaned his back on the wall in front of her, just by the caged globe. He raised his eyebrows at her meaningfully.

"Written for me," Yngva said, before frowning and trying again to voice her thought. "It was written for me when I was a newborn. My parents planned for this."

Hakind frowned in kind. "Huh. … I wonder how it got there. Did Drisa put it there?"

"She must have. But she didn't tell me about it. I don't remember it, at least." Perhaps she had. Yngva couldn't claim at this point to have a clear grasp of her own memory of the past week.

Part of her wished that she had found this letter the same day she had received the news. But that part was foolhardy, driven by only the first thoughts to enter her mind. She had been incoherent with grief, that first day. Drisa must have left this here for her to read when she was ready for it.

"Here," Yngva said, holding out the letter for Hakind to take. "Read it yourself."

The younger Nord accepted the letter with a murmured thanks, before retreating to his spot on the wall to read it through. Yngva waited patiently in place. There was little else she could do.

She had so many thoughts to navigate now. They weren't constrained only to the matters that her mother had guided her towards in that message. She was sitting here, and remembering a time when none of this had mattered to her in the slightest. Perhaps she wasn't experienced enough yet to know all the items in this room. But once, she had been a child, blissfully unaware of all the sacrifices that had been made to let her live this life. That child had been all her mother had known, when she had written that letter. There had been no telling what Yngva would become.

And yet all this preparation had been made for her. Her parents must have anticipated some incredibly dark times in her growing years. Worse still, that anticipation might have actually been very prescient of them.

"This is something else," Hakind said. "I had no idea anyone would prepare this much for anything."

"S'true," Yngva mumbled. Her mind was still elsewhere. But she had to return to the present. They must have had something to do.

They must have. All she had to do was… listen to what the letter said.

She pushed herself slowly to her feet, and looked Hakind in the eye. "I'd like you to do me a favor."

"Yes?"

"Open the highest box by the writing desk, and start looking through the correspondence. See if anything stands out to you. While you do that, I'm going to go take a look in the cellar."

The cellar was directly beneath the central portion of Whitehorn Hall, accessible by an internal stairway beside the larder. Because of its positioning, it had absolutely no natural light. Yngva never liked going down there. The stale darkness of the underground would have unsettled her anywhere, but to have that within the walls of her own home? Perhaps there was a lesson to be learned in this matter. She didn't know.

But still, there was nothing to do but head down. She descended the stairs into the hall's main room, where the hearth was. Drisa was tending the fire when Yngva came down. They exchanged a nod of greeting to one another, but said nothing. This wasn't the time to talk.

The stairs to the cellar were accessible one room over, at the end of a short corridor that also connected to the thick insulated door of the larder. Yngva descended the stone steps warily. There was another door here, at the bottom of the steps, on the left wall of the landing. And even the landing was dimly lit.

At least she didn't have to carry a torch. That would have made her even more worried.

As Yngva reached the door, she raised a hand by her head, and idly cast a simple spell of candlelight. A brilliant white orb of magical energy, about the size of her closed fist, burst into existence and settled into a floating position above and beside her. It bathed everything around it in stark cold light, colder than the sun ever shone.

This way, her fear of the pure darkness could be replaced by her fear of the long and sharp shadows. Much more acceptable, of course.

Still, there was no sense in delaying. With her spell cast, Yngva pushed open the door and stepped right into the cellar.

The cold, musty air hit her like a solid wall. She could scarcely breathe it. Before her was a dark, rectangular room of plain stone brick, filled with all the things that didn't belong upstairs—heavy tools, spare household materials, and the like. There were cobwebs on practically every possible surface. Every time Yngva came down here, there were more cobwebs. It was not easy to look at.

Perhaps she should have been counting her blessings. At least the spiders down here weren't the size of wolves.

She stepped inside hesitantly, glancing upward to make sure no tiny creatures of the earth were about to drop onto her head. This didn't have to take long. The floor directly opposite the door was covered by an old wooden crate, filled with bags of gravel for spreading on ice in winter. Yngva walked up to it, and scratched her head.

In the end, she ended up having to remove half of the bags of gravel by hand before the crate was light enough to move around. Even then, she could only push it sideways along the wall. It creaked and ground horribly against the floor as she did, as though it were about to break at any moment.

Once it was a few feet along, Yngva stopped and cast her candlelight spell again. Her floating orb of light instantly vanished, replaced by another just like it. There was nothing more abruptly vexing than having that spell expire when it was still needed.

The crate had left a perfectly square patch of lighter-colored stone on the floor where it had been. It must have never been moved over all these years. Beneath were the same rectangular stone bricks as everywhere else in the room. The bricks were loosely mortared together—again, as everywhere else in the room.

Yngva took a deep breath in, composed herself, and went for the iron crow on the tool rack. This was going to take some work.

In the end, it took less work than she had expected. She didn't use this particular tool very often, and it took some work to figure out where best to fit it in for the first pull. But once she worked the iron crow's flattened end in enough, she was able to lever the first of the bricks straight out of its mortar.

The moment she did, she knew this was the right place to be working. Beneath the brick was a sheer, flat surface of Dwemer metal.

What ensued was a mad, mindless struggle to get the bricks out of the way as quickly as she could. There was a clear rectangle of Dwemer metal, lined by a secondary layer of stone brick beneath the first. Amusingly, despite everything, Yngva found herself not wanting to break a sweat. She had only just changed into this outfit, after all. But it ended up not taking terribly long. The rectangle was right there for her to look at.

It was clearly the lid of a chest, about the same size as a typical trunk, nestled in a recess in the stone foundation. There was an elaborate, many-latched locking mechanism all around the edges, controlled by a single star-shaped knob in the chest's center. Yngva knelt down and gripped the knob with the hem of her skirt, not wanting to dig the metal deep into her skin. Then she turned it counterclockwise, once, twice.

This was what her parents had left for her.

With a series of deep metallic clicks, the lid disengaged from its latches. It was too heavy to lift by holding the knob. Yngva had to pull it up by the edges with both hands.

Inside was a massive array of items, all tightly packed in place. She removed them each one by one, forming a slow and steady inventory.

There were three identical wooden boxes, each filled to the brim with a different type of currency—the High King's gold marks, the Falmer's moon rings, the Dwemer's unidiscs.

There was a stack of four large unmarked gold ingots, two crossed over two. Each was as heavy as one of those bags of gravel.

There was a metal drum filled with two concentric rings of soul gems, all standing straight up in a wooden frame. Going by the gems' sizes, it looked like there were twelve common-grade soul gems around the edges, and five greater-grade soul gems within that. Ostensibly, they were all filled.

There were a dozen large glazed earthen bottles of unseen liquids, each marked with alchemical labels for different potion properties.

There was a compact, functional-looking Dwemer metal crossbow, with its string coiled up beside it, and a leather pouch filled with a dozen eerily orange-tipped bolts.

There was a sheathed ebony sword, leaf-bladed in shape, just short enough to fit diagonally into the chest. Its blade glowed with a curious, reddish internal light.

There was a glassy, dark red spherical object that Yngva could only assume was a Daedric sigil stone.

A person could live out the end of the world with all this.

Looking at all of this, Yngva knew that it was meant for her to use. It was a toolbox to let an adventurer skip the first steps in gaining a foothold in the world. And perhaps that should have been making her feel good. Confident, perhaps, or even simply blessed.

She'd been raised to use these tools, after all. She was a warrior, a hunter, a scholar. An adventurer.

One who had never left Hjaalmarch unsupervised, who had never fought someone to the death, who was only fifteen years old. One with no experience beyond the training she had been given at home.

Most importantly, one who had no idea how to put any of these tools to use. Fantastic, she had a great deal of gold—and she was going to spend it on what, exactly? An army of swords-for-hire? This chest was full of things to be used by someone who knew how to navigate the world. And at the moment, that wasn't her.

Perhaps, for now, that was something she'd have to keep to herself.

Yngva was going to have to come back to this later, once she could figure out what to do with all of it. For now, she placed the items back in the chest, in the reverse order that she had removed them, and replaced the lid without fastening or covering it. Simply to keep the spiders out, of course.

With that, she exited the cellar, closed the door and began on her way back up the stairs. Her candlelight spell finally expired just as she reached the top.

Beyond the short corridor, in the main room, Drisa was dusting off the shelves with a rag. She glanced at Yngva over her shoulder, just long enough to identify her, but still said nothing.

They didn't have to talk at this moment. But Yngva still had to. She swallowed, and opened her mouth, and struggled to find the right words.

"I found the letter my mother wrote," she said.

Drisa stopped what she was doing, and turned around to look at her properly. The look on her face was one partly of compassion, and partly of relief. "I'm glad. You were meant to see that."

"Did you put it there?"

"Yes, dear."

Yngva paused, hesitantly. "… Did you tell me?"

"Yes, dear," Drisa nodded. "The day we received the news. But after that, it seemed better to let you come to it on your own."

The day they received the news, indeed. Yngva didn't remember such an exchange taking place. But her memory of that entire day was a horrible blur from its start to its finish, marked only by that one catastrophic moment in the morning. Out in the garden, in the dewy grass, hearing the news for the first time.

Yngva turned and headed upstairs in silence. She had nothing more to say now.

She wasn't sure what entirely to expect, returning to her parents' room. Unearthing the metal chest had taken her perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes, and sorting through its contents had taken her at least another five. Hakind could have done anything in that span of time. So when she pushed open the door and looked inside, she wasn't quite surprised, but she wasn't sure what else to be instead.

Hakind was reclined luxuriously on her parents' bed, with a half-eaten cinnamon roll in one hand, and an open letter in the other. Next to him was a long, narrow wooden box, its lid removed, revealing a long row of envelopes. Some of them had been removed and placed in a haphazard stack on Hakind's far side.

And he'd brought in both of their goblets of water, too. They were on the nightstand, along with the cinnamon roll basket, where Yngva's letter from her mother had been.

Before Yngva could say anything, Hakind looked up from the letter and greeted her warmly. "Welcome back. How did it go?"

"Fine," she replied, perhaps a touch too curtly. She frowned for a moment at herself. Then she stepped inside and closed the door behind her with a sigh. "Plenty of useful items, but perhaps a dearth of things to use them on. What about you? What have you found?"

"A whole lot of letters about a whole lot of things," Hakind said, before beckoning Yngva to come closer. "Take a look at this."

Something just now had bothered her. Seeing Hakind being so casual in the midst of all this, she supposed. Perhaps it didn't occur to him that he was relaxing in the bed of his love's dead parents. He was only thirteen, after all. He didn't know that much about these things.

Except that that wasn't fair at all. Yngva knew better than to think so little of Hakind. She had to remind herself of that. She wouldn't have become so intimate with him in the first place if he had lacked maturity that much. In fact, of the two of them, Hakind seemed to be having an easier time carrying out her parents' wishes—to go on living their lives, and to make use of what had been given to them. And while she was standing here worrying about all these ideas, Hakind was enjoying a cinnamon roll.

Yngva went over to get a roll for herself. There were two left in the basket. At this point, they were hardly warm at all, but she bit into it with the same simple enjoyment as before. She also grabbed a napkin to catch the crumbs. Even children of Thanes had to mind that.

Then she crouched down by Hakind at the bedside, and examined the letter in his hand. "What do we have here?"

"Oh, sorry, uh—" The younger Nord immediately scooted over to the left, moving the wooden box out of the way, making room for Yngva to join him.

Which she did, although there still wasn't a great deal of room on the bed. And that was fine. They'd cozied up together plenty of times on her own bed, and that was made for one person. "So?"

In response, Hakind brought the letter around for her to read.

 _Sirese-_

 _Your words always make me smile. If you come by here on your travels, I'd love to see you again in person. It's always a pleasure doing business with you._

 _I have, indeed, been in touch with my colleagues these past months. Nothing seems to be out of the ordinary. However, I will keep an eye out for the matter you brought up. I can't promise more than that._

 _In the meantime, be careful out there. I know you don't need to hear that from anyone, let alone me, but the point remains. Not everyone in the world wants the same thing—which is all well and good. It's when they_ do _want the same thing that life becomes interesting._

 _-Kel_

"Alright, I'm done reading," Yngva said.

Hakind folded the letter back up, and placed it back in its envelope. In the intervening time, he'd managed to finish the entire rest of his cinnamon roll. He cleared his throat softly before speaking. "So… This entire box is filled with letters from this person, as far as I can tell. Whoever they are, they're obviously very important. And take a look at this—"

He turned the envelope towards Yngva, showing the wax seal still attached to its upper fold. It was a near-perfect disc of deep, lustrous yellow, stamped with the image of a sigil she'd never seen before. A rearing horse's head, surrounded by six radiating sword blades. The head, she recognized. It was the sigil of Whiterun, which matched the color of the wax. But the blades were new to her, which led to an obvious conclusion.

"This was sent by a Thane of Whiterun," Yngva said. "It has to be. It's simply a modified Whiterun sigil. Like this is a modified Hjaalmarch sigil."

She pointed to the giant painted wooden carving over their heads. The triskelion of Hjaalmarch, wreathed in a ring of fire.

"I don't know a Thane Kel," Hakind said. "And I know the nobles of Skyrim."

"Nor do I," Yngva replied. "And I grew up with a Thane."

Hakind smiled at her. "One single Thane."

"That's right," she nodded, entirely aware of how broken her logic was. "Perhaps you could ask your mother which Thane has this symbol."

"Do you want me to go do that now?"

"You may want to. Upon your return, you'll likely find me in here. I'll need to use my parents' writing desk for this."


	12. The Blindfold

**Hello! I've never added an author note apologizing for a delay between chapters before, but this one was exceptionally long. Rest assured, this story is still important to me. I'll continue writing it as best I'm able, for as long as it takes to see it through to the finish. With that in mind, enjoy!**

Whiterun Hold

Emund couldn't see anything.

There was a thick cloth hood, or a bag, something like that, tied over his entire head, secured over his neck by a loop of rope. The bag had a triangular little hole in it, positioned over his mouth. But he couldn't see out of that. He was effectively blind.

Around him, he could hear the wind breezing by, and two pairs of footsteps on the stone. He could smell the rough fiber that the bag was made of, and a grassy, wild scent in the air past that. He could feel the sunlight on top of his head, and the uneven stone beneath his feet.

His hands were bound, one over the other, tied in place with more rope. He was walking straight forward over a roughly paved road. It felt like he was going to trip over at any second. But whenever he slowed down, a sharp metal point jabbed into his lower back, and he stumbled his way onward as quick as he could.

So he was a prisoner now. This was scary.

Gelther was just a couple paces behind him, holding a rope that led to the loop around his neck. That much, he knew for sure. Probably, he had a sword or a dagger or something in his other hand, and he kept jabbing Emund with that. They were going somewhere, and they weren't going slowly.

It made sense, the bag over his head. Emund had been confused at first, until he'd realized—Gelther knew how the mask worked. If Emund took it off, he'd be a nameless nobody again, and Gelther wouldn't even recognize him as a captive. So now it was stuck on his head.

They hadn't said a word to each other since they'd started walking. It must have been an hour, at least.

"Where are we going?"

No answer.

Even now, Emund was very much aware that this whole thing should've counted as a living nightmare. He should've wanted to wake up from this. But there was only so much he could hope to snap himself out of. Sixteen years, he'd been the son of an innkeeper, nothing more, nothing less. Now he was absolutely nobody. That was his reality.

And he was disguised as a deranged cultist. So he was being treated like one of those.

So now it was a question of what he could actually do. And at the moment, that didn't consist of much besides talking. Maybe it would help to ask his question again.

"Where are we going, Gelther?"

"Shut your mouth," the Nord's voice growled behind him. The sharp metal point jabbed into his back a little.

Maybe not, then.

Emund had heard stories before, about situations where people were forced to struggle for survival. People who had gotten lost in the wilds, or had been robbed and left for dead, or had gone into battle and been defeated and captured. He'd overheard a lot of stories like that, working the inn every day, being in the same room as all manner of travelers. And he figured he was in one of those situations now.

He'd never really put much thought into how it'd feel to be one of those people. But he had to wonder how they'd all done it. Would it be wiser of him to stay quiet, and wait to see what Gelther had in store of him? Or would it be wiser of him to keep talking, and hope he managed to get some actual answers?

Minutes passed by. Emund kept walking. Eventually, his curiosity won out. He hadn't been entirely sure about Gelther's supposed work in Tvalistead. But it obviously wasn't actually to deal with some local brigands.

"Can you at least tell me what you think I did wrong?"

There was nothing but silence, for a few seconds.

Then Gelther spoke.

"If that's a jest, it's in very poor taste. I don't have to explain your own crimes to you. It's not my job to do that. It's _your_ job to answer for them."

"You're making a mistake," Emund said. "Someone else was wearing this mask for those crimes, not me."

No reply.

Emund thought for a moment, as he walked on along his sightless path, still doing his best to keep upright in the process. He'd done this already, hadn't he? He'd tried to explain his real identity to people while wearing the mask.

"Hold on. Gelther. Can you repeat my last sentence back to me?"

The Nord man paused for a moment. His voice went low with suspicion. "What is this?"

"This isn't a jest at all. What did I say? I'm trying to cooperate with you, but I don't know if my words are coming through."

"You said: 'You're making a mistake.'"

"I said more words after that. Do you remember them?"

"You think the Gray Cowl is keeping you from telling me things?" Gelther grunted under his breath. "So much the better. I don't really want to hear what you have to say."

Emund couldn't help himself. He just blurted it out. "Then why didn't you gag me?"

The metal point jabbed into him, hard. It was a sudden, piercing, awful pain. It must have nicked into his skin even through all his clothes. He tried not to make a sound, tried not to let the pain get to him, but it still made him stumble a little.

"Watch it," Gelther said, dangerously quietly. "Watch your words. I know better. You already have a bag on your head—I didn't want you to suffocate. It's that simple. Now be silent, or you'll feel even more."

Clearly, Emund had been pushing his luck too far. He went right back to walking in silence. It was hard not to feel a little sullen, now. His back still hurt where it'd been jabbed just now. But at least he wasn't bothering his captor, probably.

So that hadn't gone splendidly. Gelther wasn't going to have a conversation with someone he considered a dangerous criminal. That much was obvious. But Emund had learned something. This mask he was wearing was called the Gray Cowl. That was its name.

He'd never heard of a Gray Cowl before. Presumably, it was some kind of great magical artifact. Something that had been a great object of desire, for… something.

Except Emund already knew what the 'something' was. Maybe this was worth saying out loud.

He was going to have to let some time pass first. If he spoke again now, he'd probably get something worse than a blade poking his back.

More minutes went by. There were birds singing, in the distance. Emund let himself focus on them. They were just faint, beautiful notes on the wind. He could scarcely tell them apart from one another.

For most of this walk, he'd had his eyes closed. And that remained true now. There wasn't really anything for him to see. The sun barely made it through the fiber of this bag he had on.

He wondered what would happen if any passersby saw him right now. Would they fail to recognize him at all? Would it just be Gelther bringing some nobody along the road? Or would they see someone with a… brown cloth bag on their head, because he had the Gray Cowl on underneath, and that would let them remember him? Except instead of the Gray Cowl, it was the Brown Bag. That would be his new reputation. The crazy cultist with the bag on his head.

He really needed to say something about that cult. If he could think of anything that Gelther wouldn't have already guessed.

"I have something I need you to hear," he said, tentatively.

"What?"

"I've read an Elder Scroll."

Gelther went silent for a few seconds. And that itself spoke volumes. He already knew, didn't he? He already knew this whole cult thing had been about reading Elder Scrolls. This was just telling him he hadn't stopped the Gray Cowl wearer in time.

The Nord's reply was one word long. "… And?"

And what?

Was he going to share that insane vision he had? Probably not. It was total nonsense. Probably some kind of sign of things to come, but he wasn't sure he even remembered it all properly.

Which wasn't very reassuring, if he couldn't remember it now. That vision had been last night. And sort of this morning.

He had to say something else. Something Gelther would take as some kind of proof.

"You're taking me along on foot," Emund said. "And you're doing that because you don't have a horse. You couldn't afford one, after you bought your armor."

Gelther said nothing.

So Emund kept talking. "Do you remember Picker? The dog in front of the inn?"

"Yes I do," Gelther said, warily.

"Do you remember seeing Picker get a bath?"

"Yes, I… wait. What?" And for the first time, there was hesitance in his voice. He just didn't know. He couldn't know. "What do you mean?"

"Someone was washing the dog in a wooden tub, out behind the inn. Do you remember that?"

Their walking pace slowed a little. Gelther must have been really struggling with something.

As if to confirm that, after a few seconds, he asked, "What are you _doing?_ "

"Do you remember dealing with that drunken bully by the sawpit? You picked him up and dropped him in."

Again, Gelther said nothing.

"Do you remember why you did that? He was bothering somebody you wanted to protect. Do you remember who that was?"

And still, nothing.

"I can't tell you the things I've already done around you. But I'm not your enemy. This Gray Cowl is hiding your memories of me. There's a person beneath this mask who wants to help you."

They walked on in silence. A minute went by. And then another minute went by. Gelther was still holding him tight, making him walk blindly on, but he wasn't going quickly. Not like before. Whatever was going on in his head, it was taking up a lot of his attention.

"All right," Gelther said. "I have no idea what things you're referring to. I'm not going to release you, but I'm not going to hurt you unnecessarily either. I'll take you to our destination, and then we'll figure this out."

And so they continued walking. Slowly, their pace resumed its previous speed. Emund wasn't sure if he'd made any actual kind of progress just now. But at least he wasn't getting jabbed in the back for it. He opened his eyes briefly, to take in the sunlight through his cloth covering.

Time passed. Emund was starting to get a little thirsty. He really didn't want to ask about having a drink. Gelther had taken his pack away from him when they'd started. He wasn't even sure if the man was still carrying it.

He hoped their destination wasn't going to be too far away. This was less than his favorite walking experience.

Gelther's voice broke the silence. "Just to be clear… what did you say earlier about an Elder Scroll?"

"I read one," Emund said. "I was forced to. The cultists got my identity wrong too. Do you understand what I said just now? Did—did the Cowl stop you hearing that?"

"You were forced to," Gelther repeated. "Did you say anything else?"

"Yes. I said the cultists got my identity wrong."

A few seconds went by.

"I just answered you," Emund said.

Gelther sighed loudly. "This is really exasperating. I'm honestly not sure how much you're telling me the truth, and how much you're just playing with my mind."

"Why would I play with your mind? You have a sword to my back."

"That's what someone who's playing with my mind would say."

Emund couldn't help himself. They were having too much of a conversation. "And all this, because you didn't want to suffocate me with the bag."

There was a laughing sound. Gelther was laughing out loud. Maybe that wasn't bad. If they could acknowledge how absurd this whole thing was… that was something, maybe. Emund was having a hard time not smiling too.

At least, until he felt that metal point poking into his back ever so slightly.

"Ahhh, don't relax," Gelther said. "I certainly won't."

And so they walked on. This time, neither of them picked the conversation back up.


	13. Opacity

Morndas, 3:50 AM, 25th of Last Seed, 1E 173

Mzulft

"Can you describe the symptoms?"

"… Maybe."

Dalzren didn't know how to answer that question. She hardly understood what was going on.

She was sitting here now in a small square room, on a high bench, surrounded by counters and cupboards. There was a robed Dwemer in front of her, wearing a belt with the symbol of the Domain of Healing.

That was all of the information she could absorb about her surroundings. Everything was blanketed in a disconcerting light-headed haze. It was physically painful to try to even think. As to be expected, perhaps. She had hardly slept—if falling unconscious for some hours after a horrific hallucination could be counted as sleep. And whatever ailed her then seemed to still be lingering now.

She'd hardly had the presence of mind to drag herself here. Fortunately, the emergency services of the Domain of Healing did not close for the night. And this likely counted as an emergency.

The Dwemer healer reached forward, took gentle hold of her by the chin, and shined a bright light in her eye from a handheld metal tube. Then in the other eye. It was painfully bright.

The tube contained a clever set of lenses that allowed the user to look through the same aperture that the light exited. Dalzren couldn't remember what the technical name was for it. The device had been in common use long before her first time in the Hall of Healing. In other words, she hadn't helped design it.

"Follow the light with my eyes, without moving your head," the healer said, before leaning back and beginning to move the light back and forth, left to right—then upwards and downwards at the end of each motion, tracing an H shape in the air.

As Dalzren watched the moving light source, she asked, "What was your name, again?"

"Hzada," the healer said, before lowering the light and clicking its aperture closed. Then she let go of Dalzren's chin and stepped aside to put the device on its table. "What do you remember of the incident?"

"Well, the end of it, mainly. My foot was feeling a little strange. This was at the end of the day. I sat down on my bed, removed my boot—this was my left foot, by the way, and, ah… underneath, it was like…"

Dalzren closed her eyes. A shudder passed through her, involuntarily.

"Like it had been flayed," she murmured. "All of the flesh was hanging loose. There was blood everywhere. Then, the next I knew, it was some hours later, I was in bed with a splitting headache, and my foot was perfectly fine."

Hzada stopped for a moment, then asked, "Would you mind removing your footwear for me now?"

"No," Dalzren said, before realizing that she hadn't been meant to answer that verbally.

She brought her feet up onto the examining table beside herself, so as to be able to reach her laces. The first she took off was her left—and the foot underneath was still uninjured. The same was true of the right. She left both boots on the table beside herself with the footwraps stuffed into the tops.

Her mind continued to not entirely cooperate with her. If this persisted for long, it was going to interfere with her workday in a few hours. She doubted that she would get any more sleep tonight, certainly.

Hzada took hold of her left foot, and began applying different sorts of pressure on it with her gloved hands. "Does this feel unusual at all?"

"No. A little ticklish."

The healer nodded, then moved on to her right foot. "Now?"

"Definitely not."

In the meantime, Dalzren let herself observe her surroundings. She had to regain her bearings at some point, after all—and the sooner the better. The room was fairly compact, but the high ceiling made it feel more spacious than it was. And for the most part, it was quite plain. Built into the furniture were a few drawers and cabinets for storage of healing materials, all of them closed, their contents hidden. She wondered what they actually contained. The Domain of Healing wasn't always exactly transparent about these things.

There was also a metal plaque on the left wall, engraved with blocky text that read:

' _The mortal body is the tool from which all other tools are made._

 _-Mzarkis of Karzen'_

Dalzren asked, "Why do you have a quote on your wall from another clan's past leader?"

"I only work here. I didn't decorate the room." Hzada moved off to the side, and rinsed her gloves off with a liberal splash from a bottle of san. The sharp, fiery aroma was detectable even from where Dalzren was seated. "Still, it's a good quote, even if I don't agree with all of Mzarkis' tenets."

"Mmm. I don't think anyone here does."

Hzada paused, and cleared her throat. Now was evidently not the time to engage in intellectual discourse. "We have some more tests to run through, but I'm not detecting any notable problems so far. Hallucinations of that nature never happen spontaneously, but the cause may still be difficult to determine."

"You never know," Dalzren said. "It could be a Daedra possessing my brain."

"Ha, ha." The healer gave her a dry look, before walking up and placing her hands on the sides of Dalzren's face. Her gloves still smelled heavily of the san's residue. "If you'd like to handle things in Chimer fashion, we can always just bleed you for a couple pints, then send you on your way with a healing spell and a jug of water."

Dalzren frowned. "Do the Chimer actually do that?"

"Some of them do. More importantly, none of _us_ do."

The examination went on for some minutes longer. Hzada had her stand up and move about in a few different ways, putting herself in various positions, testing to make sure that her mental functions were all in working order—at least, the underlying neurology, if not her higher reasoning. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Eventually, the only thing particularly bothering Dalzren at the moment was that she was still missing her night's sleep.

"That's the last of it," said Hzada. At some point, she had begun recording the examination results on a piece of paper, and she now carried it on a metal tablet, with her pen in her free hand. "No neurological disturbance, no physiological disturbance detected. You're a perfectly healthy sixty-year-old Dwemer."

After the first five minutes or so, that had been the result Dalzren had rather expected. As unreliable as intuition was, it didn't _feel_ as though this had come from a typical condition. "What should I do?"

"Above all, monitor yourself. Come back if you have any more hallucinations or unusual experiences of this nature. I can't speak to whether this is likely to be an isolated incident, because I've never heard of this happening without any visible symptoms afterward."

"I certainly felt bad enough to justify paying the service fee."

Hzada, somewhat unexpectedly, laughed aloud. "You work for the Domain of Design. I know you can afford it."

It was always odd to have a domain worker break from their professional demeanor. But it had to be observed that Hzada was entirely correct. The service fee was a nominal amount anyway, more there to discourage frivolous appointments than to earn revenue for the Domain of Healing.

"So… " Dalzren took a breath in, then hesitated. She wasn't entirely sure how to phrase this thought. "What do I… what do I do if this isn't a medical problem? If it is, in fact, of some other origin?"

"You may want to consult the Domain of Magicka," the healer said, which was much to Dalzren's relief. She could have reacted quite differently to that suggestion. "I'm not sure they'll have any more answers than myself, but if you _are_ being toyed with by some errant agent of Oblivion, they'll know."

"All right. Is there anything else?"

"No, I believe we're set. Take care out there."

Dalzren excused herself with a nod, and began on the way back home. She desperately needed more sleep before her day was to begin. With any luck, she could get a couple of hours' time, perhaps even long enough to reach the dream state. That would be most ideal.

She trudged her way all the way back home and into bed with nary another thought. At the least, when she removed her day's clothing this time, none of her body seemed to be horrifically mangled. That was the best thing she could say about this night.

It was so easy to sleep again. She did desperately need it.

Morndas, 6:16 AM, 25th of Last Seed, 1E 173

Mzulft

She woke up fourteen minutes before her alarm was to activate. There was no point in trying to rest any further. Her thoughts came to her slowly and painfully, as they always did when she had slept inadequately. But she knew already that her day had begun in earnest. This would not be enjoyable.

Hopefully, nobody would bother her about anything today. She doubted she had very much patience for them.

By the time she had bathed and changed into new clothing, Amalest was already out of bed. They broke their fast together in near-silence, and then Dalzren saw him off to his day's learning, before preparing for her own day's work.

Despite that she knew it would do little besides soothe whatever little pain afflicted her musculature, she couldn't resist the urge to down a potion of stamina before leaving. The metal vial's contents were singularly bitter and unpalatable, but they were the closest substitute she had to a proper night's rest.

Fortunately, Dalzren managed to don her jewelry without dropping any of it in her room's distant crevices. Perhaps that counted as some manner of blessing.

She left her home shortly thereafter. But as she did, she couldn't help but remember what she had seen last night. She had seen her own flesh, unraveling from her bones like a bow of ribbon. With her own two eyes, in all certitude, she had seen that. What was to be taken of that sight? Surely, she could not bring the matter up with her peers in her own domain—the only reason she had brought it willingly to the Domain of Healing was because the healers were sworn to total confidentiality with those they served. If Dalzren valued her position as a designer, she could not afford to present herself as becoming mentally erratic.

Nevertheless, the walk proceeded in peace. The ebb and flow of the morning's crowd about her was inconsequential. Unfortunately, Rideroc did not make an appearance, but it stood to reason—they seldom crossed paths in the morning time anyway. She could have dearly used the comfort, all the same. This was not her day.

The Hall of Design was where it always lay, on the left side of the large atrium. Dalzren showed herself in, past the guards, and proceeded straight.

For much of the past month or so, she had been busy working on the revised soul extractor, which had been designed to maximize the odds of an effective trapping. But last week, once the extractor had been confirmed to be able to fill grand soul gems from Falmer, it had been disassembled and transported to a location in Mzulft closer by the Hall of Husbandry. This meant that it was time for the designers to move on to a new project, or projects.

And Chief Designer Hizeft had not taken long to commit her domain to something new. They always had the Clan Chief to impress, after all. So now, when Dalzren walked through this corridor, she entered a different doorway than before.

The room ahead was at the end of a long corridor. Two more guards were on duty at the far end. As Dalzren approached, a junior designer emerged from the far doors, followed by a pair of low, wheeled automatons carrying large metal boxes on their backs. The moment the doors opened, a distant cacophony of mechanized noises emerged above the city's ambient hum. They closed automatically with a pneumatic hiss a moment later, and the noise went away once more.

"Good morning," the junior designer said as they came closer. Dalzren didn't actually know his name. He had been hired within the past month. His robes were completely unadorned, besides the domain icon on his belt. Small wonder that they still had him running errands.

Actually, upon closer examination, he wasn't entirely without extra apparel. He was wearing a pair of fingerless gloves, whose thumbs were made of articulated true alloy. Prosthetics. Had he been born with eight digits? Dalzren had never noticed that.

Just as quickly, she discarded the line of thought. Once properly accommodated, personal physical disability was irrelevant to work.

"Good morning to you too," she smiled back. It didn't hurt to be polite, she reasoned. She could always find out the designer's name later.

The doors awaited. Dalzren walked up to them, past the guards, and pushed them open again. The cacophony greeted her again, much more loudly—and accompanied by the sight of its source.

Arrayed before her was a great open square pit, ringed by a broad stone balcony, and criss-crossed by a grid of metal catwalks. Beneath was a sprawling array of heavy machinery, whose simplest parts were covered in pipes and gears and casing and lenses, and whose remainder defied cursory examination. A host of designers was at work among the machines, operating controls, moving materials, directing their automatons. Here were her peers at work.

The Domain of Crafts oversaw the bulk of Mzulft's material production. But the Hall of Design still had its own facilities, for building prototype models with as little inter-domain bureaucracy as possible. And so here lay their manufacturing center, beginning to set up for its work day.

To a casual onlooker, it most likely would have appeared simply bewildering. But Dalzren understood everything she was looking at. More importantly, she knew what she was here to do. She checked the duty roster pinned on the wall nearby, looked for her name and assignment, then headed for the nearest ladder down to the pit below.

It was the same business they'd been handling for the past few days. Nothing particularly exciting, compared to the business of the soul gems—merely an effort to upgrade the efficiency of the city's biomass recyclers. The first schematic had been in production for months. Now they were in the middle of creating and assembling the pieces.

Most of Mzulft's designers likely thought rather little of this project. But the logic was simple: Better recycling meant more fertilizer for the hydro-farms. More fertilizer meant more food. More food meant a higher population capacity. A higher population meant more economic growth. More economic growth meant more power for Mzulft over other freeholds. What it lacked in glamor, the project had in simplicity, safety, and effectiveness.

Besides, it wasn't especially demanding, and Dalzren appreciated that today. She headed over to her designated work station, where several designers were already at work receiving metal mechanical components, fitting them together, and enclosing them in their casings with threaded ties. It was simple enough to join in.

Until she realized that the designer next to her was Nirthas. The one and only, in his full-bearded glory, helping in the assembly process.

"Good morning," Nirthas grinned.

"Yes," Dalzren said.

Minutes went by, and the assembly process continued. In order to accommodate Mzulft's entire population, the filtration machinery was not only elaborate, but also quite large in scale. Even this prototype would be time-consuming to implement—after assembling these various components, they would have to be themselves assembled at the testing site, which would likely be nowhere nearby the Hall of Design.

Such were the things that Dalzren contemplated while she worked. It was that, or contemplate how she still didn't know what had happened to her the night before. The constant feeling of her sleep deprivation—the constant reminder of the abnormal events—was making it difficult to avoid focusing on anything else.

Eventually, Nirthas spoke up once more. "I really don't understand why we have to be the ones doing this," he said. "We're basically putting together pieces of a sewage pump. Anyone could handle this step. Non-designers could handle this step."

"We're the only ones authorized to do this," Dalzren replied blandly.

The male Dwemer snorted. "Authorizations. You could have a designer standing in the back of a room holding a torch, and they'd be the only one authorized to hold that torch. Doesn't mean anything."

One of the other designers at the table—name of Kathan, a younger lady, decent company—said, "You're only saying that because this project doesn't stroke your ego. If this were one of your own special schematics, even _we_ would have to fight to be allowed to help."

Dalzren nodded appreciatively. She rather enjoyed when anyone besides herself spoke up against Nirthas' chatter. As competent as the mer was… well, there were plenty of disparaging things to think about him. Dalzren was too addled by lack of sleep to think of any good ones at the moment.

Naturally, however, Nirthas elected to completely ignore that retort, and focus on Dalzren herself instead. "You know, we should apply for a new project together," he murmured sidelong to her. "I have plenty of ideas all built up, I'd love to work on them with you."

"No," Dalzren said. "Thank you."

"You don't even know what the ideas are yet. I'm not just playing around, you know that about me by now, don't you? You're a good designer, you'd be a huge help."

"I know what you're doing. I'm not interested. I'm not _going_ to be interested. Save your breath, because I'm not available for you."

Nirthas shook his head slowly, presumably thinking up some new thing to say. Then he began to say it. "Don't you think your husband would've wanted—"

That was it.

Dalzren pointed a finger at him suddenly. "There is a line. Your sentence is about to cross it. Leave it where it is, for your own safety."

All at once, the other designers at the table stopped what they were doing. She could see the disappointment on Nirthas' face. It was entirely deserved.

Then the moment passed, and their work began anew.

Minutes went by still, and the minutes turned to hours. The components changed continually, new and different pieces being brought together for assembly—many of them still faintly warm to the touch after being machined or forged. Dalzren's fingers began to ache after a while, as did her lower back. This was not easy work.

Eventually, there were no more metal components, so after a brief break for lunch, Dalzren went to help build the filtration sponges. There were literal hundreds of sheets of sponge to output for this design. The process involved mixing together different alchemical components—wood pulp was a chief ingredient, and the safest to handle—and pouring the resulting gray-brown goo out onto a large, flat metal pan, which was then scraped over with a flat metal bar to remove the excess. The mixture took about twenty minutes to fully expand and then set, which meant they went through quite a few pans.

It was monotonous work, no doubt. But they _were_ the only ones authorized to do it.

After a while, close to the end of the work day, a voice spoke up behind Dalzren's back. "Excuse me, Designer Dalzren?"

She turned around. It was that junior designer she'd seen this morning. The mer was standing there with his hands together, shifting about expectantly.

"Yes?"

"You've been requested in Records. They need an authorization. In person."

Dalzren sighed. There was no postponing on this. The Domain of Records sometimes could not release a document without the assent of some relevant party. Ostensibly, one of her older, archived activities in the Domain of Design was being looked into, likely by Administration. And Records did not like to be kept waiting. They fought the sluggish reputation of bureaucracy with a fiery will.

It was just as well. Her work day was almost over anyway. Her muscles were aching, and her head was throbbing. It was hardly unwelcome to leave a little early.

She looked to the other designers present. "Do you all think you can finish up without me?"

"We're fine, go ahead," Kathan replied, followed by a chorus of assorted murmured agreements from the others.

With that, Dalzren excused herself from the chemical proceedings, and followed the junior designer up the ladder and back out of the room.

If someone asked her to name this mer she was following, this would become deeply embarrassing very quickly.

The moment they stepped out into the main corridor, however, the junior designer said, "Please follow me," and began walking to the left. Away from the Hall of Design's exit, towards the top end of the corridor. Towards the oculory.

Dalzren hurried after him. "What is this? The Hall of Records is the other way."

"It is," the junior designer nodded, without slowing down or looking back.

"And… we're not going there?"

"Seems not," the junior designer said. Then he added, "Please, bear with me. I'm under orders."

They were walking at quite a brisk pace. Dalzren had to make an effort to keep up. "Orders. From whom?"

The junior designer didn't answer.

In the end, their path led them nearly all the way to the oculory. But then they detoured through a small doorway and corridor to the right, which as far as Dalzren knew, led only to a secure storage room. It was an area seldom explored. Right in the midst of the Hall of Design, but no one had any reason to come in here.

Except for the two of them, right now. This was growing rapidly more suspicious. Dalzren wondered if she needed to worry for her own safety.

The junior designer opened the doors at the corridor's far end, and ushered Dalzren through. The room beyond was a spacious area, filled with rows and rows of freestanding metal shelves, which in turn were filled with assorted components for the oculory and its associated machinery.

A single Dwemer stepped out from around the shelves on the room's far side, and began to approach. A single, gray-haired, ornately dressed Dwemer.

It was Chief Designer Hizeft. She was the reason for this.

"Good evening," Hizeft smiled, before nodding to the junior designer. "Thank you, Tazarin."

Tazarin. That was his name. Dalzren had completely forgotten that.

The junior designer, whose name was now Tazarin, nodded back respectfully and retreated from the room. This left the two of them in here alone. Dalzren, and Hizeft.

Once again, Dalzren asked: "What is this?"

Hizeft said, "I apologize for bringing you here under a false pretense. But it was necessary in order to prevent anyone else from knowing we would be talking."

Dalzren took this in as thoughtfully as she could. But in truth, she could hardly take it in at all. Here was another unusual happening in her increasingly strange life, and it was clear that her words mattered greatly.

On the other hand, she couldn't come up with very good etiquette right now. It didn't take much thinking to recognize what this was. So she simply said it.

"I'm being recruited for a secret project, aren't I?"

The Chief Designer laughed aloud. "I'm glad you didn't take any longer to figure that out! It's that sort of wit that has me recruiting you in the first place."

"It's not more sewage sponges, I hope."

"No. No, that's to make Harsinc happy. If you'd like to continue working with that, please, do go rejoin your co-workers. I won't hold it against you. Of course, you can't tell them about this either way. But if you stay here, you'll be involved in something that actually matters for the future of the Dwemer."

For the future of the Dwemer, she had said. Not for the future of Mzulft. That was an odd specification. Dalzren narrowed her eyes. "All right. I'll agree to that, sure. Secret project. I won't say anything. You have my assistance. What are we doing?"

"Let me answer that question with a question. Have you ever seen an Elder Scroll?"


	14. The Nordic Way

Loredas, 1:12 PM, 13th of Hearthfire, 1E 173

Snowhawk

High King Harald spread his arms wide to the crowd. "I proclaim this, the Nord land of Skyrim! We, the race of men!"

His assembled retainers put a fist in the air. "Hurrah!"

"We are one people, united! Together, we are strong!"

"Hurrah!"

High King Harald was a puppet. So were all of his retainers. They were all cute little stuffed puppets on a stage, talking to one another while light airy background music played. Yngva was just sitting amid the benches and watching.

The show had been going on for a while now. First a story about the immorality of banditry, then a story about the mages in Winterhold, and now this. It was no particular special occasion—the puppeteers simply happened to be in town. So here Yngva was, in the open space of the Palatial Square, having something resembling a normal afternoon. Besides the royal intrigue.

"My sons!" Harald gestured to a line of little miniature puppets by him, in descending size. "What a joyous day this is!"

"Yes, father!" The little puppets chirped in unison.

The High King asked, "How shall we celebrate? Shall we hold a feast? Perhaps a tourney? Perhaps both!"

"I like horkers," the tallest son replied cheerily.

The music went silent. Harald turned and stared at his sons for a moment. "… Work with me, here."

But then, with an ominous musical sting, one of the retainers, a bald man with a pointed black beard, stepped closer. "No," he cried. "You do not deserve to be king! You have forsaken our Atmoran heritage!"

Presumably, that was Councilor Madural. Yngva had read plenty about him. Challenger to the throne, and so on. The beard was a little much.

Harald turned around slowly, looking the bearded man in the eyes. Or the plush version of eyes, rather. "Oh, really? Madural, my friend, are you saying you're more _man_ than I?"

"Mm-hmm," Madural nodded slowly. "I should be wearing that crown. You know why? Because I deserve it!"

The other retainers shuffled away slowly, sinking back down out of sight. Only the two contestants remained in view. The two adorable puppet contestants.

"There's no need for this," Harald said.

"Yes there is!"

"You're a good councilor!"

"You're a _bad king!_ "

The audience gasped. Even hearing that from a puppet was a scandalous moment. No one could get away with saying that in earnest.

Madural said, "I challenge you, High King Harald, to an honorable duel to the—"

With an audible _WHUMP_ , and the _ding_ of a victory bell, Harald slammed his fist into Madural's face. Madural went flying back and fell out of sight with the others. The orchestra promptly began playing an obnoxiously bouncy victory tune while Harald danced about in place. 

Yngva couldn't help but join the others of the audience in laughter. The tension of that dire statement had been quite well cut.

Once the brief musical interlude was over, Harald pointed his hand at the spot that Madural had presumably fallen off to. "You're lucky I'm a nice man," he said. "Get out of here."

Then the curtains drew over the stand, and a brief musical interlude played. When they opened again, the background had changed from a lavish throne room to a dark gray cave. The music promptly began a low, creeping, ominous tune.

For standing in the middle of the cave was the unmistakable figure of a Falmer. A snow-white creature in black robes, with very long pointed ears, a large hooked nose, and eerie bright green eyes. It—he, perhaps? He was standing between a few lit candles, hands upon his hips.

The Falmer proclaimed, "From this secluded cave, I concoct my plot. The false king of Skyrim will wither and rot. All of my rituals are duly in place. This land will once again bow to my race!"

He seemed to be saying his lines in time with the musical cues. It was giving him a bizarre, larger-than-life feel.

From somewhere in the distance, a metal item crashed on the ground. Then a few more after it. Then a few pieces of ceramic crashed down too. The Falmer turned and looked off to the left, presumably to the source.

After a couple seconds, another piece of ceramic crashed loudly, for good measure.

The Falmer called out, "What is this now? Who goes there? Who has come into my lair?"

"It is I," Madural said, as he rose into view. No gasp was necessary this time. "If you help me bring down the High King, you will be handsomely rewarded."

"My aid to you, I will offer most free, if you solve my darkest riddles three!"

Madural scratched his plush head with one hand. "… Are we speaking in rhymes? I don't—who speaks in rhymes?"

The Falmer ignored him and continued.

"A simple query first, my friend, if you can. Who is the most loved to have ever been?"

Madural made a pensive noise. "All right, we'll play your game. Who is the most loved? Akatosh, for he is the only god to have earned the respect of every mortal race."

"Good, very good," the Falmer nodded, "you're earning my trust. Now, how many Daedric Princes rule over us?"

Madural answered, "Zero. There _are_ seventeen, but none hold any sway over the true gods."

The Falmer hopped in place merrily and made a strange little 'ooOOooh' sound. His little head wagged back and forth a little in the process. It seemed that that answer counted as correct.

"One more riddle, and then we can go. Will you answer this question to the effect of 'no'?"

The music stopped. Madural stood still for a moment.

Yngva wasn't sure how to answer that one, herself. It didn't sound right.

Nothing happened.

Then, with a loud _PUFF_ and a flash of fire, Madural's head exploded. His smoldering body stood still for a moment, before tipping over and falling out of sight.

"Mm, what a shame, you have been undone." The Falmer shook his head pityingly. "They never seem to know how to answer that one."

But then, after a musical swell, then the Falmer cackled evilly and turned away. "No matter, my plan will proceed as I like! The Nords will fall victim to the Falmer's first—"

 _WHUMP._ And there was High King Harald, and the Falmer was on the floor.

A moment passed in silence, and then the jubilant bouncy music resumed, and Harald began doing his puppet victory dance.

Naturally, the entire audience burst into a mix of laughter and applause.

The curtains drew over the stage, and thus ended the act. The music changed to a light, melodious tune that indicated the main attraction was over.

Yngva was among the first to stand up. She, like most of them, had mainly been here to watch the High King's likeness being silly on stage.

"Come on," she said to the girl beside her. "Let's beat the crowd."

"Right," the girl nodded. She was Yngva's companion in watching this event. A merchant's daughter, name of Alitra. A slight, pale girl, freckled but smooth, with dark reddish hair in a long neat braid. Despite appearances, Alitra was only six months Yngva's junior. They had met when learning their letters, under the same teacher in the Spire of Shor.

That had been ten years prior. Since then, their lives had diverged quite markedly, but they had still kept in touch, as adolescents of the same middling status in Snowhawk. As Yngva saw it, they had to stay together, since no one above or below them would be inclined to lend any aid.

Besides Hakind, of course. But his was a special case.

"That was some performance," Alitra said, once they were out of the square and free of the crowd. "What was your favorite part?"

"Madural's head exploding, easily," Yngva replied instantly.

"Mmm. I liked that too. I wonder what they did it with. Fire salts, perhaps?"

"If so, it was probably the most expensive part of the play."

Alitra giggled lightly. "Yes, well. Worthwhile."

Lately, things were feeling almost normal again. It had been several weeks since Yngva had sent that letter to Whiterun. That had provided plenty of time to settle into a routine. Most of her routine, of course, involved training. She had also placed a few orders at the blacksmith, and those remained pending. Certainly, none of it before now had included watching puppet shows.

But it was still happening all without her parents. There would be no one to come home and tell about this. Besides Drisa, but obviously, she didn't count.

"Actually," Yngva said, "have you seen Hakind? I haven't seen him the past couple days."

Alitra shot her a wry look. "No, I have not seen your noble love, but I'm sure he's busy with important matters. I was actually surprised to see you today _without_ him on your arm."

"Please, don't be jealous." Yngva returned the look quite readily. "Besides, I'd be on his arm, not the other way around. You know how it is."

"This isn't actually my road," Alitra said suddenly. And she was correct. The flagstone street ahead would lead to Whitehorn Hall—that was why Yngva had begun walking down it. The merchant's district was off to the left.

Yngva scratched her head. "Well, if you have a day you need to get back to…"

Alitra stopped in place, and made a wincing, weighing gesture. "I… _may_ indeed have one. But this was fun! We should do it again sometime."

"Next time a troupe comes through Snowhawk with exploding puppets."

"Yes." Alitra smirked. "I'll be counting the days."

The two of them exchanged a brief hug, and then some polite farewells, before heading their separate ways.

Thus, Yngva proceeded on her way towards Whitehorn Hall alone. At this time of day, the sun should have been shining brightly, but it was behind heavy cloud cover. Yngva supposed it was lucky that the puppet show hadn't been rained out. She still threaded her way through the streets at a very brisk walking pace.

From outside, the house looked rather smaller than it seemed from within. It was a simple, rectangular design of dark gray stone—deceptively simple, for its contents. The front door was at the top of a small roofed porch, with a mere three steps of staircase leading up to it, and with small glass windows on either side. This was what Yngva saw every time she came home.

She fished her key out of her belt pouch as she approached the stairs. This always felt inconvenient to do. Some garments of hers had pockets, but the majority did not, which required her to carry things by other means. If there was one thing she missed about wearing trousers every day, it was the inherent convenience of not having to fuss with a button whenever she wanted anything.

That was how Yngva knew her life was approaching normalcy again. She had found enough stability to once again be irritated by her wardrobe's shortcomings.

Inside, the living hall was quiet. The hearth was burning low, evidently untouched for some time. Yngva closed the door behind herself softly, and removed her shoes before coming farther in.

Then she went to put her shoes on the rack, and found that the empty spot was already taken. There were two pairs of heavy leather boots sitting there, both covered in dirt and dust.

Yngva had never seen them before in this house.

As she righted herself, she called out loudly, "Hello? Who's here?"

There was no reply, not even from Drisa. The house remained utterly silent.

Yngva's hand drifted to the dagger on her belt, opposite the pouch. She doubted she would need it—she hoped she wouldn't need it, rather. Certainly, a determined attacker in her home wouldn't take the time to remove their shoes before proceeding inside.

Or perhaps her letter had been answered. Two pairs of boots—such as from a Thane of Whiterun and their housecarl.

Either way, her next action was the same. Slowly, carefully, making as little noise as she could, she walked around the hearth, and through the open door into the dining room.

A tall man was standing in the room, facing away from Yngva—examining the mural on the right wall. He was wearing an embroidered purple tunic over white sleeves and dark leggings. His hair was a wavy, lustrous black, hanging just past his shoulders. A sheathed sword was hanging from his belt.

Whoever he was, he clearly knew how to live expensively.

Yngva said, "If you're looking for me, I'm here now."

The man didn't turn around. But he visibly lowered his head and let out a sigh. "Yngva," he said. His voice was quite deep, but gentle. He made Yngva's name sound like a wonderful thing to say aloud. "I… received your letter. I thought it best to reply in person."

"Kel." Yngva nodded slowly. That sense of wariness lingered still. "You're here now. What is this?"

Now Kel did turn around to face her. And it became instantly apparent that he was no man at all—but a mer.

The first giveaway was his facial structure. It was of the ridged, pointed sort that all elves shared. No doubt, under that long hair, his ears were pointed too. His visage was a youthful and handsome one, but it was unmistakably elven, even at a glance. And more than that, his skin was a peculiar tone of deep golden yellow. Yngva had never seen it before.

She could make an educated guess, however, as to its meaning.

"You're a Dwemer," she said.

The mer nodded. "My full name is Kelthenez of Regnez, but that's a bit of a mouthful. Everyone calls me Kel." Despite everything, he had quite the flawless Nordic accent. Had he been speaking from out of sight, there would have been no reason to doubt his race. It was rather uncanny.

He added, "I'm truly sorry to hear about your parents. They were great people, both of them. They'll be missed very dearly."

Yngva searched for words. There was a Dwemer inside her house. She'd never thought she would even lay eyes on a Dwemer at any point in her life. Sometimes a Chimer or Ayleid caravan would come by the city, but Dwemer? They never left their underground homes.

Eventually, she said, "I thought you'd be a Thane of Whiterun."

"I can typically be found in the home of Thane Endri in Whiterun, yes." As Kel spoke, he circled around to the cupboard, and took out a couple of silver goblets. There was a green bottle of wine already on the table—Yngva's own wine, in fact. Or rather, her parents' wine. She recognized the glasswork from the bottles in the cellar. Kel continued to speak. "But no, I'm no Thane. My line of work yields a great deal of benefits, but titles are _not_ among them."

"You're a Dwemer, living in Whiterun. Is that legal?"

"No one has said I can't. But I wouldn't do it without someone important to vouch for me. It's been a long-standing arrangement." He paused in the middle of uncorking the bottle. "As you can guess by the lack of a beard, I don't do very much living in the usual Dwemer fashion."

"Wasn't thinking that," Yngva muttered. But it was true that the Dwemer was clean-shaven. Even Nord men often had more facial hair than this.

"Do you want some wine? I want some wine." Kel had uncorked the bottle, and was filling one of the goblets as he spoke.

Yngva was forced to search for words again. "You… you can't offer me a drink in my own house. That's my wine."

"Yes or no?"

"… Sure," Yngva muttered. "Sure, let's have wine." She paused momentarily, still struggling to find her line of thought. "I don't understand. Why were my parents talking to you?"

Kel chuckled lightly. He set the bottle back down where he'd picked it up. "I've known them for longer than you've been alive. The last time I saw you, in fact, you were six years old. And a boy." Now he paused, and looked over at Yngva curiously. "How's that been going for you?"

She walked over and picked up one of the goblets carefully. "Just fine. I suppose that explains how you got inside my house."

"Yes. I knocked. Drisa let me in. She's out working in the garden right now, if you want to see her." Kel leaned back against the table with one hand, and took a sip from his goblet with the other. The moment he did, he closed his eyes and leaned his head back, swallowing only after a lengthy pause to enjoy the flavor. "… Ahhh. Yes, I'm fond of this vintage. It has this sort of… this hot, fruity aftertaste. It's like it's full of life."

Yngva raised her eyebrows slowly. Then she sipped from her own drink to see for herself. It had a hefty bite to it, as wine tended to. She supposed she could see the flavor Kel was referring to. Mostly, it tasted rather dark and intense. "Well. … What exactly did you and my parents do over the years? I'm sure there's some reason for all the letters we have upstairs. It's hard to piece together their meaning when I have only your end of the correspondence."

Kel laughed again, this time much more mirthfully. "They kept the letters? That's grand. Ohh… Well. I suppose the short version of it is—I procure difficult-to-find items. Your parents, being explorers and treasure hunters, did quite a lot of buying and selling with me."

On one level, this explanation was quite satisfactory. Yngva had never known her parents to sell their treasures to the local vendors in Snowhawk. For that matter, she had seldom gotten involved in what they did with their treasures at all. But on another level, meant that Yngva was talking to someone who knew her life practically better than she did herself.

Perhaps that was just what she needed now.

"So," she asked, "what does that mean for today? You've come here to meet your new business partner? … You know it's polite to hang up your sword when you enter a host's home, don't you?"

The Dwemer shrugged. "I'm in a Nord city, it's a safety precaution. I mainly came here today to pay my respects. It's like I said. Your parents were great people. You should be proud to have grown up in their care."

Well, that was a vaguely disquieting thing to hear from someone she'd just met. But again, it made sense. Yngva had been surprised by one thing after another, it seemed, in this conversation. She'd come into this room expecting to talk to a Thane, and had ended up with… this.

Which reminded her of something else, too.

She asked, "If you're not a Thane, and you don't have a housecarl, then why were there two pairs of boots by the door?"

Kel nodded to Yngva—or rather, nodded over her shoulder, at something directly behind her. "You might want to ask him."

Of course.

Yngva let out a resigned sigh, and looked behind herself.

Standing in the doorway, with one shoulder leaning upon the wall, was another mer. A young male, likely younger than Kel, somewhat shorter in stature. Certainly just as handsome. His skin was more olive-toned than gold, and his hair was dark brown, short and unkempt. He was wearing a loose, layered robe of pale gray and drab green. On his hands, he had a pair of ornately patterned brown leather fingerless gloves. They didn't look like the sort of thing to wear indoors.

This second mer wasn't saying anything. He simply stared at Yngva silently, with a bit of a scowl.

"Hello," Yngva said. "What's your name?"

The mer didn't answer her. He circled around silently to stand by Kel's side, staring at her continuously.

Kel put an arm around the mer's shoulders, then nodded in Yngva's direction. "She asked you a question," he said gently, as though reminding him.

"I heard it," the mer replied flatly. "All right. My name's Divayth Fyr. I'm a Chimer, from Veloth. In the east."

"I know where Veloth is," Yngva said.

"Wow, good for you." Divayth peered at the goblet in Kel's hand. "What is this? You get wine, she gets wine? I don't get wine?"

Kel asked, "You want any?"

Divayth made a face. "Eh."

Whoever this Divayth fellow was, he clearly didn't know much in the way of propriety. That, or he did, but he was choosing to be improper out of spite. Yngva wasn't sure which would be worse. But this was her new guest now, whether she liked it or not.

She asked, "What are you doing here in Snowhawk, Divayth?"

"Good question," the Chimer muttered.

"Divayth and I were doing business in Whiterun when I received the letter," Kel said. "I offered to bring him along. You know how it is. It's a long trek from Whiterun to here, and the nights in Skyrim get awfully cold—"

Divayth nudged him in the side with an elbow.

"—and I wanted someone who could cast a fire spell. Campfires." The Dwemer grinned merrily. "I thought it might be a good learning experience for him to come to Snowhawk. See what the Nord life is like."

Yngva sighed again. She knew what she had to ask now, but she doubted she'd get a polite answer. "What do you think so far, Divayth?"

"You have a lot of books upstairs. That's nice." The Chimer shrugged, as best he could with an arm around his shoulders. "I'd like them more if they weren't all about Nords slaughtering elves."

"You've… been going through my books," Yngva frowned.

"The best way to learn about a person is to see what books they read."

"Without asking permission?"

Divayth ignored her question. "But upon consideration, I'm having to weigh that against learning by seeing what clothing they wear." He gestured up and down Yngva's body. "You, for example, seem to have taken quite well to dresses."

Kel let go of Divayth's shoulders and took a step back, drinking down the last of his goblet's fill before setting it on the table. "In the letter, Yngva, you mentioned a mysterious book that came into your possession." That was certainly a welcome change of subject. "Do you have it with you now?"

"Yes, I do. Shall I fetch it for you?"

"Please. We'll wait here."

Yngva excused herself from the room in due order, and headed directly to the stairs. It was only one flight up.

When she reached the top, however, she hesitated, and stopped in place. She was getting ahead of herself, she could tell. This was starting to get rather overwhelming. There were two strangers inside her house, and they wanted to advance her situation, and… it was all rather sudden.

But that wasn't quite a correct premise in the first place. Neither of these elves were particularly interested in advancing her situation. Kel was obviously here to see whether Yngva would be interested in doing business with him down the road, and Divayth was apparently along to watch.

Neither of them were actually here to help her. She had to remember that.

Just under a minute later, Yngva walked back into the kitchen with a certain leather-bound book in hand. It had been nestled amid a few other books on her shelf. Now it was about to have its secrets revealed—or not, depending on Kel's appraisal.

In the time that she'd been gone, the two mer had taken to standing by the table and chatting. Kel turned and nodded to her appreciatively. "That's the book, then?"

Yngva handed it over without any further question. "See what you make of that."

Kel promptly sat down with it at the table, directly across from the wine bottle. "Well, if this symbol on the cover means something, I don't know what it is. I'll draw it on another piece of paper later, for reference."

"You'll _draw_ it?" Yngva peered at him inquisitively. "… You draw?"

"That I do," the Dwemer nodded, as he opened the book to its first page. "I could make a living as an artist, I think, but not as much of one as my current line of work. I don't suppose you have the missing page to this?"

"What?"

"The second page has been cut out." Kel pointed to the crease in between the blank page and the first page with text. "You can just barely see it. Someone removed something from this book."

Well, that complicated things by quite a bit. No doubt, it had some sort of ominous implication about the book's origin. But at the moment, it didn't mean anything.

So Yngva merely shook her head. "You'll have to make do. The book was given to me in this condition."

Divayth asked, "Were you really named Yngvi once?"

That question had come quite out of nowhere. But it was the first thing the Chimer had said that wasn't awful, so she decided to answer it seriously. "… Yes. I was born into a male body. I can only assume that the gods had a slight mix-up."

"You don't look male at all," Divayth said. He was looking Yngva over quite intently, walking around to beside her as he spoke. "I mean… I suppose I can sort of see it. Kind of. I can't imagine why you'd want to change that about yourself, but… It seems quite thorough. I suppose with your sort of privilege, you can get away with it."

He seemed to be approaching the situation like an explorer looking at a wild specimen. Yngva wasn't sure what to feel about that, besides possibly insulted. It would fit the pattern with this mer.

She replied, "It's a work in progress. But I really don't like to have it treated as some sort of dubious territory. I'm a girl. We can move on, right?"

Divayth appeared to be making a face again. "… But… Does that mean you… do you have…"

"Use your imagination," Yngva grumbled. "Kel, how's that book?"

Kel glanced up. He was already a couple of pages in. "Informative, so far," he said. "Though I'm unsure what to glean besides the obvious facts. Clearly, someone thought these facts were important enough to write down in a secret book. So my guess is that whatever treasure the Gates of Dusk harbored, it was something that the authors were aware of, and wanted to monitor without actually extracting. And this book was written for some colleagues of theirs—plural, because otherwise it would be a letter. What the contents of the ruin might be, however… that's beyond me."

Yngva replied simply, "Whatever it was, my parents died for it."

It still hurt to say that. Even simply hearing herself say those words—her parents died—put an unpleasant pang in her chest. But this was her life now. She couldn't lose herself in puppet shows forever.

Her parents were dead, and she was sharing this room with Divayth. Things could have been better right now, she had to admit.

"Yes," Kel nodded somberly. "I suppose so. I'll continue reading, see if I find anything I recognize."

That seemed sufficient for now, at least. Yngva was about to head back up to her room, when she realized she was neglecting an obvious question. "Oh. Are you going to be in town for long?"

The Dwemer put a hand over his place in the book, so as not to lose it, as he leaned back and let out a long, contemplative sigh. "… A couple days, perhaps. I have other business I can take care of while I'm here. If there were a funeral service pending, I'd stay for it, but that's not on the agenda. So we'll see."

Yngva nodded slowly. Then another thought occurred to her. "Did you really see me when I was six? I don't remember."

"You were out playing in the garden. I was talking to your mother in here. That was the last time I entered this house, before today."

And as usual, this made sense. Yngva supposed her parents hadn't wanted her to see their dealings. Perhaps it had been borne of some desire of theirs for her to have a normal upbringing. Clearly, it had worked, at least until last month.

Divayth pushed himself off the side of the table suddenly, and strode off to the back door. "I need some fresh air," he grumbled, before showing himself right on out.

That left Yngva and Kel in the room together.

Yngva asked, "What's his problem?"

The Dwemer had already resumed reading. This time, he didn't bother to look up from it. "He's from Veloth. He's had a rough life, and he sees Nords like you as self-entitled conquerors who sit on stolen wealth. And he's only four years older than you. His experience is… limited."

"Hm." Yngva leaned her hands down on the back of one of the chairs, resting in place as she thought that over. That had certainly been a forthright answer.

What was there to think, though, in truth? She couldn't weigh in either way on her people's reputation. And she doubted her parents' wealth was the product of conquest, when their work had been in exploring for ancient treasures. It was a discussion she wasn't equipped to have—that much she knew for sure.

With all of that in mind, she asked something else. "And what do you think?"

"You ever wonder why your city is so rich and splendid to live in?" Kel did look up at her now. He paused for emphasis before continuing. "The Nords, your ancestors, swarmed over Skyrim and wiped the Falmer off the map, but not before stealing all their wealth. They stole gold, jewels, tools, weapons, technology, even the secrets of magic. And they took advantage of their captured Falmer survivors for slave labor, until those died out too."

Again, he paused briefly.

"But I think it's unfair to single out your race for something that everyone does. I think people have been conquering each other since the dawn of Time. The world as we know it is built on a constant rhythm of atrocity and exploitation. No one truly prospers without someone else suffering for it."

He returned to his reading with a slow shake of the head. "The sooner you make your peace with that, the better."

Now Yngva didn't know what to say.

At this point, all she knew was that she was becoming tired of making her peace with things.


	15. Through The Veil

All around him was an endless, murky sea, filled with broken shards floating invisibly in the water. They should have been vibrant with color and life, but they were broken. They were too far apart.

There was nothing to be done for it. Time passed, and the sea shifted, as it always did. The worlds within the images were fractured.

What he saw, he saw in a haze, as though looking through a crude glass window. The images were dark, and incomplete. But they were there, and he observed as intently as his senses allowed.

The sun rose over a distant mountain horizon. Dew glistened on the tall blades of grass. A bird sang its call of the morning.

A young girl, her fair hair divided into two braids, stood up suddenly. She began running through the field, her simple dress trailing behind her, an exhilarated grin upon her face. A dog barked in the distance. She ran, and called its name, laughing aloud, admonishing her pet for traveling so far without her.

Then she slipped on a smooth rock, and fell heavily onto her hands. The moment of joy vanished instantly. Her skin was scraped—not badly, but painfully, and she could not hold in her weeping. She sat still in the field, unable to do any more than react.

But then a set of footfalls approached in the grass, and a furry snout nosed its way over her shoulder. A warm tongue lapped at her cheek. The dog knew his owner was in pain. He would not leave her alone in a time such as this.

"I wish I could see your face."

Another time, another world. Two black silhouettes, one of a man, one of a woman, stood face-to-face before a fiery sunrise. Its color was muted by the haze of the vision.

The woman giggled lightly. "We all wish for things sometimes. Aren't you content? I'm content."

The man reached up and laid his hand upon the woman's cheek, and where he touched, there was heat. "If I ever stopped to be content, how would I have found you?"

Then a painful jolt shot through the glass, and a fracture bled out into the sea.

A drop of blood fell past him. Then another, and another, collecting in a puddle on the cold floor.

Ghostly eyes watched him from beneath the shadow of a dark hood. There was seething rage in those eyes. But there was something else, too. He never saw what it was.

A voice said, "Remember."

Sundas, 7:00 AM, 17th of Last Seed, 1E 173

Unknown Location

Emund woke with a start. A hand was nudging his shoulder.

"Come on," Gelther's voice said. "We haven't got all day."

So it was time to begin walking again. Emund sighed under his breath.

"Water, please," he whispered.

The mouth of a waterskin pressed to his lips. He drank a couple of deep mouthfuls, then nodded. The waterskin came away again. Some of the water got on his front. He didn't care.

Day after day, they had been walking. Gelther had led him off the road almost immediately, and Emund had been left to stumble blindly through grassy plains and rocky hills and everything else. He'd had this bag on his head the entire time. His face felt filthy. So did his hair. But Gelther had never let him take it off, not for a second.

Which made sense. If the bag came off, so could the Gray Cowl beneath. And then Gelther's prize would be lost.

Emund held his hands up wearily for Gelther to tie them together again. He'd spent the entire night sitting upright, with his chest and shoulders tied by sturdy rope to a tree trunk. He always had to sleep tied to something, so he wouldn't run.

Gods, were his muscles sore. Practically all of him was sore. He couldn't even feel his rear end at this point.

But he had to have his hands tied before Gelther would let him up. So he waited for the one rope to go on his wrists, and then for the other rope to come off his torso.

Then he put on his shoes again—he'd put them next to himself before settling in for the night—and pushed himself upright. Relieved himself against the tree he'd just been tied to, then turned away. There wasn't much light around them. It must have been early in the morning. Or cloudy.

So Emund asked, "Is it going to rain?"

Gelther snorted. "How should I know?" Then he circled around audibly to behind Emund's back, and prodded him with that sharp thing of his.

It was probably a dagger, going by how the man maneuvered it. Emund had taken a couple of days to figure that out. It was one of the only things he'd actually learned since leaving Tvalistead.

This was his existence now. Being marched through the countryside with a bag on his head. Eating one meal a day, having barely enough water… he didn't know how long he could do this.

And so they walked on.

There wasn't much to do but think. And try not to trip on the tree roots. Gelther was leading Emund around in odd shallow zig-zags, maneuvering through whatever woods they were in. The air was cold and damp. So was the ground. It all felt miserable.

At first, Emund had taken comfort in the fact that he hadn't been killed yet. But he didn't know why Gelther wanted him alive, and he'd never gotten anywhere by asking. There wasn't anything to say about it.

On the other hand, they had to stop walking sometime. There was only so much land in Skyrim. By now, they could've been in a completely different hold. The terrain didn't seem mountainous enough to be the western Reach, and they hadn't gone north up the hill to Hjaalmarch. So they were probably going south or east from Tvalistead. But he couldn't say. The forest was certainly new.

How many flat areas in Skyrim had forests, anyway? Falkreath Hold, maybe, or Eastmarch? Definitely not Whiterun Hold itself. Emund only knew these things because he'd seen a map of Skyrim once that had little trees on it for forested areas.

Emund had had those thoughts again and again. Every day, he updated them with whatever new things he'd been able to learn. It wasn't like he had some kind of plan to escape. Or any kind of plan at all, for that matter. But he was bored. What else was he going to think about?

He didn't have it in him to be afraid anymore. This all had to end sometime.

Time passed on. Minutes, hours. The morning turned to a warm noontime. And the tree roots seemed to be lessening. The ground beneath Emund's feet was flattening out, turning to grass, then just dirt—in fact, a dirt road. And he wasn't hearing tree branches over him anymore. They were back out in the sun.

A field, maybe? Some kind of clearing.

Gelther said, "Stop. Get on your knees."

Fear jolted through Emund's chest. He'd never been told to do this before. Not right in the middle of their day. Was this the part where Gelther killed him?

No, that didn't make sense. They wouldn't have gone this far just for him to be executed. It wasn't like he was standing in front of a pre-dug grave.

Though just to make sure, he took one more step forward before kneeling. Gelther couldn't fault him for that.

Emund heard the older Nord step away from him. Then he heard the footsteps circling around him, stopping a short distance ahead.

A door opened. A small wooden door. He could tell that instantly. It sounded just like the front door of the Whitefeather Inn.

Instantly, Emund was hit by a very familiar smell. It was the smell of livestock. Straw, manure, stale air. He'd never liked it. But he'd grown up in Tvalistead. He would've recognized this anywhere.

Was he on a _farm?_

Gelther circled back around to behind Emund. "Get up," he said flatly. "Move forwards. Watch your head."

There wasn't much to do but obey. Emund walked ahead as carefully as he could, and kept his head down. His toes bumped into a wooden beam. He stepped over it—through, he presumed, the door.

The light through the cloth over his face suddenly became much dimmer. And the air around him became much warmer. Gelther audibly closed and locked the door behind them.

There were animals in here—horses, perhaps, or cattle. Emund could hear them shifting around in their pens. They were reacting to the new presence. And they didn't like it.

That made sense. Neither had Picker.

Of course, this didn't explain what they were doing in here. Unless they were just getting a horse.

Emund couldn't resist saying it. "Are there actually horses in here? Because you could use one. More than you could use that armor."

"Be quiet," Gelther said.

The older Nord walked him all the way through the barn, to the far end, where there weren't any more sounds coming from ahead. Here, he lifted open a wooden lid with his foot, and pushed Emund towards it. "There's a ladder. Climb down it."

A trapdoor? So, no horses, then. This was getting more and more bizarrely secretive by the second. A normal barn in a field in some random corner of Skyrim, with a trapdoor down to a hidden location. It couldn't have been much less remarkable.

Emund knelt down before he could be pushed any more, and felt around on the ground—the dirt was cool, and surprisingly dry—for the trapdoor entrance. His fingers touched a wooden frame set in the ground, large and square. He reached inside and groped around for the top rung of the ladder. It was smooth and round, comfortably thick, and well-worn. The ladder was on the far side of the trapdoor from him.

He swung his legs down, hanging off the top rung with all his weight on his hands, until his feet found the lower rungs and he began climbing down.

After a few seconds, Emund started to wonder just how far down this ladder went. It wasn't short. Whatever this was, it wasn't a regular cellar. He wished he could look down and find out.

But he ended up reaching the bottom just as Gelther began climbing down after him. He heard the trapdoor swing shut after them. Down here, the floor was made of solid earthen bricks. It felt a little warmer than above. Smelled very musty.

He called up, "Now what?"

"Stay put," Gelther replied, still climbing. "… Actually, take four steps back."

Emund obliged. A moment later, the climbing sound stopped, and a pair of feet landed heavily on the floor in front of him.

Then a pair of arms grabbed him from behind, and forced him to the ground.

There was no time to resist. Emund couldn't stop it. One moment, he was standing, and then his arms were hitting the floor—his forehead hit the floor a moment after, thankfully not hard. That was as far as his thoughts got before he realized what had just happened.

Someone besides Gelther was down here. They were kneeling on his back, pressing one knee right into the base of his spine. He could hardly breathe. A faint crackling noise was filling his ears. It felt eerie.

"Your mission was a failure," a woman's voice above him said. "We found your cultist friends. They're all dead."

What? Emund didn't know what this was. Besides maybe just cruel. They must have really disliked whoever had been wearing this mask.

The woman kept going. "You thought your use of the Elder Scroll would remain beyond the High King's justice. You're wrong. You will be tried in the court of Winterhold for your crimes. There, you will be sentenced, and most likely executed. You'll pay for all the blood you've spilled, with your own."

So that was it. Finally, Emund understood. He was the prisoner of these people. And they were working for the High King. That was why they were going through all this effort to keep him alive. They wanted to present him in a trial, and have him killed in front of an audience.

Even the High King wanted him dead now. That was the sound of it. Emund didn't know what he was going to do.

Tears ran from his face. They dripped away. Soaked into the cloth of the bag. This was his life now. He was going to answer for someone else's crimes, and the world was just going to go on without him.

And no one would even miss him. No one remembered he existed.

That faint crackling noise finally went silent. Emund tensed up, held his breath. Waited for whatever was to come.

Then the woman atop his back suddenly pushed herself off, and took him by the hand as she stood up. "Stand," she said.

Emund obeyed.

The woman said, "No aggression. The mask has changed owners."

Then she deftly unfastened the knot of the bag on his head, and carefully pulled it off. Carefully, so as not to take the Gray Cowl off with it.

Emund was standing in a low, long, dark cellar, filled with rows of wooden crates. A single torch in a wall bracket filled the room with shadowy orange light. In front of him, Gelther stood with his hands on his hips.

Another person—the woman—stepped into view. She was shorter than either Emund or Gelther, but much more stoutly built, and covered in hide and steel armor. Her features were firm and broad, but a bit older, with skin just beginning to show the lines of age, and wavy reddish-blonde hair with hints of gray hanging down just past her ears. She reached out and began undoing Emund's bonds with delicate hands.

Emund looked between the two of them. His heart was still pounding from whatever that had just been. But he wasn't under arrest anymore. Apparently. He asked, "What is this?"

"My name is Hylana," the woman said, still undoing the ropes. "As I described those things to you, I was casting a spell to let me observe your emotions. You had no anger, no resentment. Only fear. Your emotions were those of an innocent person."

Once the ropes were off, Emund rubbed his wrists over, and then ran a hand over his face. He had a real bush of a beard now. He didn't like it one bit.

Gelther said, "We know the Gray Cowl is a fickle artifact. You have great power, being its entitled wearer. We had to know if you were a threat. I'm sorry about that."

Emund opened his mouth silently. He didn't know what to say. Everything was hurting so badly, still. He was hungry, he was filthy, he was sore, he was tired, he was… well, above all, he was upset. But he'd been that way for so long, he'd grown numb to himself. That was what the Gray Cowl had gotten him.

So he asked, "Can I leave?"

"You could," Gelther shrugged. "But we're not the only people interested in you. Let me ask you one thing: Did you read the Elder Scroll?"

"… Yes," Emund said. He didn't want to lie, but he suspected he wouldn't like whatever would come next.

The woman, Hylana, said, "Here's your choice, Gray One. Leave us, and you can roam Skyrim as you please. You can even go back home. Of course, no one will recognize you, except maybe as a menace. You'll be feared and mistrusted, no matter what you do, for the rest of your days." She paused. "Or you can stay with us, and help our cause. And in return, we'll help you find your old identity once again."

It didn't sound like much of a choice. This had just turned from an arrest into a sort of strange conscription. But Emund knew what he was supposed to ask now, so he did. "What would you cause involve me doing?"

"Fighting for us," Gelther said solemnly. "Fighting for Skyrim and her people. You have power. All you have to do is use it wisely."

Emund hesitated. He definitely didn't want to fight. But again, what options did he have? It sounded like he'd end up having to defend himself no matter what he did. His life was probably going to have violence in it in the months to come.

But that was his only path to having a future again. He'd just have to make his peace with it.

"All right," he said, hesitantly. "… But who are you? Why are you doing this? Why are we in this barn?"

"Because our stronghold is in here," Gelther replied.

Emund looked around himself. "In a little cellar? The two of you?"

In response, Hylana walked over to one of the crates, and turned it effortlessly onto its side. Underneath was another trapdoor.

"Oh, for the love of Shor," Emund said flatly.

Hylana pulled the trapdoor open, and began climbing down the ladder. There was a faint, pale light shining from beneath.

Gelther pointed past Emund to the trapdoor. "You first."

It was a lot easier to climb down this time. He could actually see. So he walked over, and began climbing through the earthen shaft. It looked to be about fifteen or twenty feet down to the bottom. Down there was another faint orange light.

At the bottom was a small earthen enclosure. It was dominated by a giant pair of iron doors on one wall, like from an ancient Nord tomb, framed in a stone arch. Hylana walked up to it, inserted a shining steel key into its central lock, and twisted firmly. Thick metal latches slid apart audibly inside the door's mechanisms.

Then she pushed the doors open. On the other side was another world.

Everything on the far side was made of stone masonry, all perfectly smooth, all expertly fit together. It was a long, wide corridor, with a high arching ceiling, lit with orbs of floating white magelight set in recesses in the walls. There were three intersections off to other corridors at regular intervals. And the whole corridor was full of people. At least a dozen of them, all walking about, wearing different sorts of armor and robes, talking to each other in hushed voices.

"We'll provide you with a room to yourself," Hylana said, from behind him. "You can get yourself bathed and fed there, and we'll bring some fresh clothing for you. Today, you can rest. Just be sure to keep the Cowl on. Anyone we don't recognize down here, we attack."

Emund turned around slowly. He just stared at the woman. And at Gelther. They were standing there like this was totally normal. And it wasn't. "… Who are you people? What is this place?"

Gelther shrugged pleasantly. "We're just a few hard-working people, who want to do our part for the realm. No cult worship, no creepy rituals. We're an institution."

"More answers will come. But for now, just rest. You're safe now." Hylana smiled at him softly. It didn't seem feigned.

"You said I can rest today," Emund said warily. "What's happening tomorrow?"

Hylana's smile didn't waver. "Well, today you rest. Tomorrow, you begin your training."


	16. The Challenge

Sundas, 7:57 AM, 14th of Hearthfire, 1E 173

Whitehorn Hall

The garden was as quiet as always.

Yngva appreciated that as she was going through her morning exercises. It was quiet. She could focus on herself, on her form. On the longsword in her hands.

It was strange. For these past weeks, Yngva had been struggling simply with the idea of the house being all hers. But now that it was populated by more than herself and her steward, she… well, truthfully, she wasn't sure what she wanted anymore.

Better company, perhaps. She'd scarcely seen those two mer since their first meeting. She didn't even know if either of them were in the house. They seemed to come and go as they pleased without telling her anything. Kel was tolerable enough, at least. If Divayth said another word to her, she was going to punch him in the face.

Yngva had to wonder if this was what her parents had dealt with. Struggling to get respect from their elven contacts and colleagues. Perhaps the title of Thane had helped her mother to some degree. Or perhaps elves universally disregarded Nord titles, and the whole point was moot.

It mattered now. Here she was, in the garden, with her longsword. Wearing her training gear, hair tied back, ready for training. This was the way that her life was meant to be. Diligence, practice, technique. Refinement of her own potential. Even with everything feeling like it was slowly but surely drifting out of control, this remained constant.

She would take solace in that. The ache of her muscles was a good thing. It was a pain that she understood.

"Good morning," a voice said from the porch.

Yngva turned.

It was Kel. He was standing right there in the doorway, watching her. Gone was the tunic from the day before. Now he was outfitted in a sleek black jacket of padded fabric, with thickly armored steel gauntlets on his hands. He was carrying a helmet of the same make under one arm.

"You brought _armor_ with you?"

The Dwemer shrugged. "I generally travel in armor. I saw you practicing. I thought I'd offer to practice with you."

Yngva couldn't help but laugh. This was not where she had expected her morning to go at all. "You… you want to practice with me? … That's how you want to spend your time in Snowhawk?"

"Well, I'm sure you'll make a better account of yourself than Divayth. He didn't want me sparring with him in the first place."

"So did you?"

"I'll let him answer that." Kel smiled briefly—cryptically—before taking a single step in the direction of the weapon rack. He paused with deliberate hesitation, and gave her another glance. "So. Sparring, yes or no?"

If Kel was asking her to spar, then more likely than not, he knew his way around a blade very well. He was a merchant, which meant little for this. And he was a Dwemer, which meant little also. But he was well-traveled, if nothing else. Surely, that sword he'd been wearing on his belt the day before hadn't been for mere decoration.

So he'd likely make quite an account of himself. This was due to be a challenging fight.

Why not.

Yngva nodded. "All right—yes. Grab a sword, if you like. They're all safe."

Then she hefted her own weapon, settled into a fighting stance, and waited.

Kel reached for one of the matching longswords, and lifted it carefully from its pegs. He kept it pointing downwards until he had emerged out into the garden as well. Yngva was suddenly struck by how tall he was. The Dwemer had a fair few inches of height over her. It would be like sparring with her father, perhaps. In a way.

Yngva backed away a couple of steps, maintaining her stable posture, and raised her blade up over her right shoulder. She watched Kel's sword. Waited to see what he'd do with it.

"By the way," the Dwemer said, "you look quite good in the arming jacket. Formidable. I like it."

"Thank you," Yngva replied, without taking her eyes off that sword. Its polished steel was glinting in the sunlight.

And so the spar began.

Kel kept his sword low, hanging gently in his hands as he stepped forward. He was inviting an attack. Testing her.

And Yngva planned to indulge him. She took one step to the right, and uncoiled her whole torso's power with a downward diagonal cut.

The Dwemer darted backward suddenly, raising his sword and parrying the swing at a distance. Then he swept his blade away and came back with a downward strike of his own. It was incredibly quick. He was a natural at this.

But so was Yngva. She already had her own longsword coming around into a hanging parry.

Something struck her left side, hard. It was Kel's blade. He had feinted. Begun an overhead strike, only to suddenly turn his swing sideways.

Yngva grunted loudly. That had been a painful impact, even with the jacket on. More importantly, it was a successful strike, and she hadn't been able to reply to it. She backed away and lowered her weapon.

"Score, one to nothing," Kel grinned.

She raised her eyebrows. "We're keeping score now?"

But the spar was still on. Kel was advancing. So Yngva raised her sword once again, this time straight out with the point forward.

When the Dwemer moved in to knock her blade aside, she stepped backward and withdrew, only to come back with a direct thrust. It was predictable enough. He had to do something about her blade to get past it. This simply took advantage of that truth.

Kel parried upward, stepping in and pushing their blades together over their heads. He was right in front of Yngva's face. For a moment, they were both trapped in the bind, trying to turn past each other, pitting sheer muscle and leverage together.

Yngva didn't want to see what result this would yield.

So instead of transitioning to a sword strike, she turned aside and slammed her shoulder hard into Kel's chest. He staggered backward, and their swords came apart. Yngva pushed him back further with a shoving kick to the thigh. That put them outside striking distance of one another

But she didn't wait for her opponent to recover. She came right back in with a downward cut, aimed right at the top of Kel's head, before the Dwemer could come back to his full height.

Her sword stopped short. The Dwemer had jumped up and grabbed onto her wrist in one hand, parrying her blade a moment later in the crook of his own blade and guard. This was the beginning of a disarm technique. It had to be.

Yngva had never ended up in this situation before. There was only a split second to react, and she had no counter in mind. So she did the only thing she could, and improvised.

With her own left hand, she grabbed onto Kel's sword wrist, and pulled their weapons together. Then she yanked them both down, leaned forward, and delivered a helmeted headbutt to the Dwemer's face.

At the same time, a wrenching force came down on her sword, and a foot kicked into her abdomen. She and Kel both staggered away at the same time.

Her sword wasn't in her hand anymore. It was lying in the grass.

So was Kel's, right next to it. They'd just disarmed each other.

Yngva held up her empty hands. Looked at her palms for a moment. It was strange—she wasn't sure how that maneuver had worked. But it clearly had.

"Nicely done," Kel said, grinning broadly. At least he didn't have a nosebleed or anything of the sort. In fact, he was still in a fighting stance.

So Yngva remained in hers as well. "So… Which of us got the point for that?"

"Let's say we both did," the Dwemer chuckled, before putting up his raised fists. "How are you for hand-to-hand?"

That was a good question. Yngva certainly hadn't expected to go in that direction now. But she replied by wordlessly raising her fists in the same stance. If they were going to spar, it couldn't hurt to have some variety.

Especially because her knowledge didn't stop at Nord wrestling. Kel had been right about one thing—her people had taken a great deal of things from the Falmer. It hadn't stopped at gold and jewels.

She took a moment to mentally readjust, to take her focus from armed combat to unarmed. No longer were they working with swords. This would be much more direct.

Kel stepped forward, closing the distance once again. Yngva watched him carefully. If she was perceptive enough, she might be able to detect his first move in advance.

The first move was a grab. Kel went straight for her left upper arm, lunging forward, taking it tightly in his hand—there was no time to repel him. His fingers pinched hard even through the padding of her jacket. Yngva grabbed onto his left shoulder in kind, and the fight was on.

Nord wrestling was a constant, furious struggle to take a dominant hold over the opponent—to bring them down, and leave them there while ending on one's feet. That was the win condition, to be standing while the other was on the ground.

Their arms shifted into an even interlock within the first second. Kel was taller than her, but he wasn't quite as strong—that much was obvious instantly. He was leaning down low into the lock, pushing and straining her from one side to the other, but he wasn't applying enough force.

At least, not yet. That could change. Yngva didn't want to rely on pure muscle to get this done. So she feigned a stumble, and let Kel try to take advantage of it by twisting her onto her right side.

But the moment the Dwemer shifted his pressure, Yngva let go of his left arm, and ducked under his side. Her arm went around his back—in the same instant, knees still bent, momentum still going, she met it with her other hand too, and she'd suddenly grabbed Kel by the waist.

Then she pushed up with her legs, and threw herself backward onto the grass. Kel went tumbling right over her shoulder, and landed first.

It was an easy matter for Yngva to right herself from there. A fair victory, no matter how one looked at it. This was her strength. She pushed herself up to her feet, and—

Kel twisted and lashed out with both legs. His feet caught her ankle like a snare. Yngva had no time to react. The force was irresistible. She fell back onto the ground right at the same time.

The Dwemer was working himself closer. Getting up off the ground, keeping that leg trapped. He was going to come on top of her, and put her in some kind of pin. In little more than the blink of an eye, the balance of the fight was all changing.

Yngva drew in her free foot, and shoved Kel off of her with another pushing kick. Then she jumped back to her feet—the Dwemer was already getting up too—and resumed her fighting stance.

"That wasn't a Nord wrestling move," she said, still breathless.

"No." The Dwemer smiled at her as he stood upright. Then he took a step back into a new stance himself, and with an elegant flourish, brought both hands up in a perfectly straight-fingered open guard, his thumbs just slightly tucked in. The technique was unmistakable. "No, it wasn't."

Falmer fighting it was, then.

Yngva took two steps in, and met Kel with a low left strike, her right hand still on guard. At the same time, Kel lashed out with a fist right at her face.

Both of their strikes were blocked. Yngva pushed the incoming fist away, broke out of Kel's block, attacked again—the Dwemer was fast, incredibly fast, he caught and countered everything—but this was exactly Yngva's training. She deflected strikes and turned them into attacks of her own, she broke out of grabs just as she put Kel into them, two or three moves at a time, so fast that she couldn't even think about it. Every series of attacks was punctuated by a pause of a few seconds as they stepped back away from each other and assessed their next moves. Partly to anticipate the initial strike, partly because this was far too fast to do continuously.

This fighting style was not some wild flurry of fists. Every strike was aimed to hurt, to cause pain, to disable. One mistake would mean a fist to the floating ribs, or a spear-hand to the throat. With each exchange of blows, Yngva was deflecting attacks she knew were coming within inches of her vital organs, and returning the very same. This was Falmer hand-to-hand fighting. Even with thick padded armor slowing them both down, it was a nightmare to confront.

Then, amid their furious exchange, the tempo was interrupted. Kel grabbed one of her incoming fists by the arm in both hands, and reared back for a moment, letting the strike go over his shoulder. Yngva took the opportunity to strike at his abdomen, but somehow, he wasn't there. And a moment later, a gloved hand was snaking across her neck, tilting her head back, and her balance was gone.

She landed hard on her side, with Kel's hand still tight on her arm. It put her on her front, awkwardly supported halfway on one knee, with the arm twisted behind her back. Pain jolted through her.

"Ahh, yield! I yield!" There wasn't much else to do. She didn't even understand what he'd done to dominate her like that.

But just like that, Kel let go, and came around to offer her a hand to get back up. She didn't hesitate to take it.

Whatever had just happened, it was bewildering. Yngva was still breathless, even as she staggered her way back onto her feet. "What was that? I have no idea what that was."

The Dwemer shrugged pleasantly. "Not a Falmer move. But I thought I had better luck using it there than during the wrestling."

"What was it, then?" Yngva put her hands on her hips. "Do Dwemer have their own secrets of unarmed combat now?"

"They do, but that was an Ayleid move." Now he simply grinned at her. He must have known how little-expected his answer would have been. "I first began to learn their martial techniques about ten years ago. Got in touch with a warrior prince of theirs, nice fellow."

While Yngva was still mentally assembling her answer to that, another voice called from the porch: "So _that's_ what it looks like!"

She closed her eyes. Yes, she knew that voice. She was going to just breathe in, and breathe out, and let her heart find its pace again, and not get into anything bad right now.

Then she opened her eyes and turned around. Divayth Fyr was standing there with one hand resting on a porch column. He had a cheeky grin on his face, for some reason.

Behind her, Kel pushed himself up and collected the swords off the ground, one by one. He called over, "How much did you see?"

"I was upstairs," Divayth said. "I saw you out the window. Yngva threw you over her shoulder. Nice job."

"Thank you," Kel replied wearily, before sidling up past Divayth on the porch to put the swords away. His padded armor had collected a few dark smudges on the elbows and back, from all that contact with the ground.

Yngva began to follow him up, but stopped at the beginning of the porch. Divayth was still standing right there and staring at her. It was a little unsettling.

Meanwhile, Kel was heading for the door. "I'm going to go change," he said, without looking. "I'm covered in sweat now. That was a great deal of fun, though. You fought well, Yngva."

Then he headed inside, and Yngva was left out in the garden with Divayth.

"I should probably change too," she said, before beginning to climb the stairs.

But the Chimer stepped sideways and put himself directly in her path. He was reaching behind his back. "Not so fast," he said, his expression steadily darkening. "I need to talk to you."

Yngva stepped back down onto the grass, and looked up at him. This was starting to feel a little worrisome. Perhaps she was in for yet another fight now, albeit of a different kind than the last. "What is it?"

In response, Divayth brought forth a bundled metal chain in his hand. He let it fall free, hanging from his fingers, as he kept staring hard into Yngva's eyes. It was a thin, silvery steel chain, threaded through half a dozen discs of moonstone.

It was very, very familiar.

Yngva opened her mouth silently. What had this elf been doing in her house? Had he been combing through all of her belongings? Just… looking for valuables, any place he could? Because that chain most definitely did not belong on his person.

She wiped her gloved hand over her forehead, and took a deep breath in. This wasn't going to be pleasant at all. "Look, Divayth, if… if you're going to just search through all of my things without asking, I can't keep you as a guest in my house. That's not a trustworthy thing to do."

Divayth still didn't stop staring at her. He waved his hand back and forth a bit, making the chain swing from side to side. "Do you even know what these are?"

"Yes, they're moon rings. They're… Falmer tokens, basically. They're also mine, and I think those were in my room, so how did you even find them?"

"They were in your writing desk," Divayth said, shaking his head with a look that was both awestruck and furious. This didn't make sense at all. Was he jealous of her wealth? "I didn't go on some hunt for treasure. I was only looking to see what sort of _stationery_ you use. And instead, I found this."

Evidently not, then.

Yngva didn't know what to say. She was feeling less and less comfortable about this entire thing, but… she didn't know what to say. She opened her mouth silently, then simply shrugged. "… Uh. All right. Uh… Why are you angry right now?"

"Why did you have these in your room?" Divayth wasn't quite raising his voice, but he was starting to really bristle. It was… actually a little intimidating, and not helped by the fact that he was towering over her on the porch. "Why? Why, Nord? Do you even care what these mean?"

"They… mean they're currency, that I can't use. I don't know what this is." Yngva shrugged helplessly. "I got them as a… it was a gift, from a friend. I try and collect them. The moon rings are really pretty. Is… is that bad, now?"

Divayth smacked both of his palms into his forehead, and dragged his hands down his cheeks. The moon rings bumped into his chest on the way. He didn't even seem to care. "Yngva, you … stupid … _fool!_ Are you even listening to yourself right now? Listen to yourself! You're saying the only thing is that they're pretty. Are you serious?"

Now Yngva _truly_ didn't know what to say. She stood silently, and tried to think. This wasn't easy. She had a Chimer who was angry at her over keeping a moon ring collection. What was this?

After a moment's silence, Divayth started up again.

"These rings belonged to the Falmer. They were made by Falmer, used by Falmer. And you're a Nord. Do you think your friends just… _traded_ for them? These—" Divayth raised the moon rings again, and pointed to them with his other hand— "these are only here, in your possession, because your people wiped the Falmer people out of _existence_. This isn't even a war trophy! This is like having a, a, a baby shawl that you looted from the enemy. Do you realize how _sick_ this is?"

Oh. Now it made sense.

Bizarrely, Yngva found herself wishing Kel were still out here. She wished anyone were out here, besides Divayth and herself. Anyone to help defend her right now, because she didn't know how to reply to this. She was being told that she was some kind of—her heart was pounding, she was starting to feel sick—what was she being accused of?

"I didn't try to hurt anyone," she said, after a few seconds. It came out so lamely, she wanted to throw herself off a cliff. Oh, she didn't try to hurt anyone. She already knew where this was going. Why had it taken this long for her to question all the treasures she'd grown up around? There was innocent blood all over them, wasn't there? Even on these moon rings.

Divayth put his hands on his hips, and simply leered down at her. Another few seconds went by. "… Yes. I'm sure you didn't try to hurt anyone, Yngva. You're just so steeped in your own culture's domination of everyone else, it didn't even occur to you, did it? That you're making a keepsake out of people's _destroyed lives?"_

That anger was coming right back into the Chimer's voice. It was terrifying. He was actually smiling a little, and he was still furious.

"You know, at least Kel owns up to what his people have done to the Falmer. He's aware of it. He knows it's unjust, he doesn't like it, but he _understands_ what his people have done. That's what you get when you _earn_ your way through life, like he's done, like I've done. And here you are—here's a question for you, Yngva. Think about this. When was the last time you earned something for yourself? When was the last time you got anywhere without having all the tools just handed to you?"

The smile went away. He was practically snarling now. Leaning over her, looking right in her face—he was coming down the steps, it was impossible to avoid him—

"Because all these nice tools of yours are _stolen from people who needed them_. You're living this happy little life of luxury and the _only_ reason it's possible is because people were _slaughtered_ for it. You don't deserve anything you have, your family didn't, your people don't, it's all because you ate the gods-damn Falmer race alive! That's why you're so rich! And here you are, with your fancy house and your fancy clothes and all your little moon rings, and you have _no_ idea how lucky you are. How do you even live with yourself?"

It felt like being crushed. Yngva could barely even breathe. She couldn't think. There was this elf in front of her, telling her that she was bad, and the things she did were bad, and she couldn't even argue it. She'd always known, she'd read her books on the Falmer, she… simply… hadn't thought of it like this. Coming from someone who wasn't a Nord, it all sounded horrible.

She was a thief. That was what all of this meant. Yngva was a thief, and she'd never even tried to be, but she was.

Her eyes were hurting. Tears were welling up. She didn't want that. But she couldn't stop it, either.

"I'm sorry," she said. Her voice was failing. But she kept trying to talk. "I don't… I don't want to steal from—from anyone. I don't want to hurt any elves, or… any… I mean… I'm sorry! I don't know how to fix this…!"

Divayth's face tightened. He was staring at her, like he was expecting something. Then he started shaking his head, back and forth. This wasn't good enough for him. Of course it wasn't. Yngva hadn't done anything good at all.

"Take your damn moon rings," the Chimer snapped, and shoved the chain and its discs into Yngva's chest. "Go on your mission, I don't care."

Yngva fumbled for the chain before it could fall to the ground. Her vision kept getting blurry, she—she couldn't believe how this felt right now—but she had to hold onto these, because… they weren't even hers, she couldn't just leave them, could she? There was nothing good to do now.

By the time she looked back up, Divayth was already striding back up the porch, into the house. Leaving her alone in the garden.

So she was a thief.

Nothing she had actually belonged to her. It hadn't even been fairly inherited. It was all stolen.

Why couldn't Divayth have just started trying to punch her, or something? Like Kel had done? That had been so much friendlier. That had been good.

Yngva turned and sat down heavily on the bottom stair of the porch, the moon rings resting on the grass beside her feet. If there was some kind of big lesson to learn right now, she didn't know what it was.

And she was covered in sweat, too. It was starting to feel cold. It fit how the rest of her felt right then.

When she'd received the news of her parents' death, Yngva had been devastated. More than she ever had before in her life, including now. But now, she mainly felt… defeated. Kel had defeated her physically, again and again, with his superior wealth of knowledge. And Divayth had defeated her just the same, except using nothing but words.

There had to be something to learn from all this. There had to be.


	17. A Matter of Opinion

**Hello! It's been a very long time since I really sat down and started writing more of this story. But the way things are, I'm hoping I'll be able to finish it within the next few months. Rest assured, we're far from done.**

Morndas, 3:32 PM, 8th of Hearthfire, 1E 173

Mzulft

It had been two weeks since Dalzren had last begun a normal workday.

The others in the Domain of Design—as well as her son, and Rideroc and everyone else—believed that she had been assigned to a new independent research project. In one, generously broad sense, that was true. But this was anything but independent, and 'research' was too small of a word.

For one thing, she was standing in a secret room. The only access point was through a hidden door in the back wall of her Domain's storeroom, then down a lengthy unmarked corridor. On the official architectural maps of the city, this area simply didn't exist.

The room was shockingly large and open—a completely unsupported space, in defiance of the Dwemer ideal of regular reinforced pillars. It was pentagonal, with five walls of equal width and angle, arching up to a high vaulted ceiling. White lamps studded the walls and ceiling at regular intervals.

And in the center was an elaborate, five-sided, flower-like array of gigantic machinery. It was low, broad, and sturdy—well designed, even at a glance—but the arrangement was unlike anything Dalzren had known. Each face of the machine bore a large leaf-shaped shell of opaque green crystal, angled outwards, its lower end mounted in a jointed twin support. Two of the shells were closed. The other three were hinged open, like empty green jaws, waiting to be fed.

The center of the machine bore aloft a spherical orb of metal, studded with dozens of small crystal lenses at irregular intervals. It was mounted in a hemispherical skeleton of articulated rails in an assembly that resembled a miniaturized version of Mzulft's oculory sphere. Beams of solid white light shone upon it from corresponding lenses on the two sides of the machine with the closed leaves.

This was the secret project. Dalzren had been working on it for the past two weeks, helping to assemble its components and adjust its magical properties. Chief Designer Hizeft only ever spoke of it as 'the device.' Dalzren had taken to mentally referring to it as 'the thing.'

She appreciated her mind for its tactful level of vagueness on the matter.

But it was difficult to formulate a more specific name whether she wanted to or not. Despite working on the thing for two weeks, she wasn't entirely sure for what it was meant to be used. Harnessing the power of Elder Scrolls, yes. But whatever goal to which that led, no one had told her yet. As with any project, she only knew what she needed to in order to perform her duty. And in this case, that was rather little.

It was particularly strange because there were only three other Dwemer involved in this project.

One of them was Chief Designer Hizeft. Another, like this entire project, officially didn't exist, being known only by a distant alias. And the third was in the room with her now.

An older Dwemer, male, with a long gray beard verging on white. His robes were entirely plain, lacking even in a domain symbol. Before this project, Dalzren had never heard of him. But his name was Angmthanz, and allegedly, he had once worked for the Domain of Magicka.

"What's on your mind?" he asked, from over Dalzren's shoulder.

Dalzren, at the moment, was sitting at a small side table over a detached lens assembly, and replacing the lenses with newly ground models. Perhaps she hadn't been doing it very attentively. "I don't know," she shrugged. "Work. What else?"

In truth, she had been thinking about something entirely different. This project was ostensibly for the good of the Dwemer race, but it seemed unlikely to do anything for her personal woes.

And by her personal woes, Dalzren meant the memory that had haunted her since the day she had joined this project. The memory of the night before.

She had forgotten nothing of that one terrible moment of vision. Nothing like it had happened since, but an explanation still eluded her. And that was even more troubling then the incident itself.

The Domain of Magicka had shown her nothing out of the ordinary. The Domain of Healing still diagnosed her as a healthy Dwemer of her age. And yet she could not deny her own memory. It was not some fanciful moment of delirium—she had truly perceived her body as being grievously mutilated, for the brief moment that she had remained conscious. Few mysteries unsettled her so deeply.

Then again, most mysteries in life weren't related to the notion of her own mind failing her.

"I know what it looks like when someone's mind is wandering," Angmthanz murmured, still behind her shoulder. "We've been in here for two weeks. You can talk to me."

Dalzren set down her lens pieces abruptly, and twisted around in her seat to look the Dwemer in the eyes. If they were going to have a conversation, she would commit to it. "All right. In the spirit of that, here's a question: Why did you and Hizeft pick me?"

No, that wasn't what had been on her mind. But strictly speaking, Angmthanz hadn't actually asked.

The older Dwemer paused, and inclined his head curiously. "Well… Personally, I would have been all right with trying to continue this by myself. But Hizeft said we needed additional help, and I can't disagree with her. She's busy with her daily management, plus the Specter. And my engineering expertise is limited. I don't know enough about refraction and so on, to be dealing with all these lenses and mirrors and such. That's purely in your domain."

The Specter. That would be the name the group was using for Hizeft's third helper. Dalzren hadn't the faintest idea of who that actually was, besides that they were possibly related to the plan to acquire five Elder Scrolls.

Honestly, the whole project seemed a little ominous. It didn't bode well when the only thing to have a designated work name was a living person.

"Well," Dalzren said, "I suppose I've been working on this project long enough to confirm it—yes, I can assemble and calibrate advanced compound lenses for you."

Angmthanz said nothing.

"I'm doing little more than putting machinery together. All of the schematics were laid out for me. Did this need my expertise, truly?"

"I suppose there was some element of confidence to it, as well," Angmthamz said, non-committally, as he came around to lean his back casually against the wall. "The fewer people know about this project, the better. After all, in cities like ours, Dalzren—secrets are hard to keep. But if our Chief Designer friend wants to bring someone in, I trust her judgment. And you seem like a nice enough sort."

"Thank you," Dalzren said.

"My pleasure," the older Dwemer smiled. "But… that's not truly what was on your mind, was it? You were thinking about something else."

This conversation was becoming more and more curious with every passing minute. On some level, it was odd enough that they were having it in a secret room, in the vicinity of a secret machine. But it was also the first time Angmthanz had approached her for anything besides purely work-related discussion, and she suspected that the mer himself had something on his mind as well.

Nevertheless, Dalzren chose to remain diplomatic. "Feel free to explain your reasoning."

"It's not some great insight on my part. You've been here too long to suddenly question why you're here. If you were concerned about that, you would have brought it up immediately. And I'm sure you did, when Hizeft was first recruiting you."

Indeed, she had. It had been a brief discussion, but she had asked that much.

"So, with that in mind," Angmthanz continued, "I suspect something else may be weighing on you. And if you're concerned I'm being too personal—ahh, don't be." He grinned crookedly, with a dismissive wave of the hand. "I've been in the company of prestigious Dwemer for far too long to care about formalities anyway. I once had to sit with a foreign official in Bthardamz, in a debate hall, while we were waiting for a third mer to arrive. Two hours, we waited, and she didn't say one word. It was agony."

Dalzren narrowed her eyes. "You've been to Bthardamz?"

The older Dwemer nodded.

"That's on the opposite end of Falmereth from us. What were you doing there?"

"Classified. Sorry." He paused, then flashed her a grin. "No, I was there to represent Mzulft in an arcane conference. It was before your time."

"What happened after the two hours?"

"I got bored and left. Turned out the third mer overslept. He wasn't going to join us anyway." Angmthanz gave her a knowing, pointed look. "I know. It was disgraceful for everyone involved. That's the sort of thing that only happens because of mortal flaws, you know. Sometimes it feels like these little secret projects like ours are our race's only hope."

Dalzren had tired of sitting facing sideways like this. Even with Angmthanz against the wall, it was annoying her. She twisted back and turned the entire chair around underneath her, then crossed one leg over the other—and suddenly, an unbidden thought occurred to her. This was another little mortal limitation. Another minor hindrance, an inconvenience that wouldn't apply to more advanced beings.

Was it worthwhile to work behind her colleagues' backs so that they could all stop having to worry about chairs? Dalzren doubted that was even close to the real stakes at hand, but she could only guess. She was building a device that would harness the largest collection of Elder Scrolls in Mzulft's history, and she had no idea what it was meant for.

She asked, "You think so? I wonder sometimes. I'm sure all of the other races of Tamriel have secret projects of their own. The only difference I've perceived is that we don't take magical matters with such faith as the others. … No offense."

Angmthanz folded his arms, perhaps a bit defensively. "Do you know what the Domain of Magicka does?"

"Not really, it's not my domain. I assume you research spells. And, uh… I don't know." Dalzren was acutely aware that she was making a social gaffe. Magic was frowned upon in all Dwemer societies, it was true. But the Domain of Magicka existed because magic still needed to be studied. Or that was what she had heard.

"Well, strictly speaking, I don't know what the Domain of Magicka does these days either." Angmthanz chuckled softly as he spoke. "It's no longer my domain. Oh, I was a mage, sure. I know spells, sure. I can cast fireballs with the best of them—or at least I hope so, it's been a while—but, ah… When I was a part of it all, we focused on studying the forces of opinion. Are you familiar with that term? Forces of opinion?"

Dalzren shook her head.

"You're familiar with magic-neutral environments, though."

"Yes."

"Well, there's a reason we have those, and it's a little more complicated than just blocking out interfering auras. Most of you Dwemer don't have to worry about this, but we do."

The Dwemer cleared his throat. This was going to be a lengthy speech.

"It's… It's along these lines: There are rules, logical rules, that exist in the world. Objects are equal to themselves. A equals A. Squares have four sides. Parabolas are cross-sections of cones. The inertia of an object is proportional to its mass. Energy cannot be created or destroyed, only moved around. These are all valid rules, but they fall flat when exposed to the forces of opinion. If a sufficiently powerful mind decides to violate one of these rules, then it will be violated. There's no better explanation for it.

"And yes, I know it's an old topic for Dwemer. Oh, we can theorize about how it all works—maybe it's all part of Aetherius! Maybe that's the explanation! And the energy of fire spells is drawn from Aetherius, and frost spells drain energy back to it… No, no, it's not that simple. We can't write it off that way. As far as the greater beings of the Aurbis are concerned—the ones with more force of opinion—our little logical constructs are just that. Constructs. We might hold them as inviolable truths, but the one truth we've observed is that they _are_ violable. Our magic-neutral environments are only to make sure our established rules all work."

He took a deep breath in, and a deep breath out, then pushed himself off the wall. "Ugh. Now I'm tired. I'm tired of giving talks. Apologies if I bored you just now. Or unsettled you."

"Don't worry," Dalzren said idly. "It's food for thought."

Some parts of that speech had been more educational than others. In broad strokes, Dalzren had been aware of it already. As a high-ranking designer, she had to be aware of such things, merely to do her job. But at the same time, it was all too easy to understand Angmthanz's position. From his point of view, the world of logic—the one that Dwemer alone obeyed, the one that set them apart from all others—looked awfully flimsy.

In continuation to her previous comment, she added carefully, "I think… you have a point, but it shouldn't imply that we must accept the conditions of the Aurbis on blind faith still. If force of opinion is truly so important, then all we must do is gather more force for our opinion to matter more. You see what logic has gained us. No other race has come close to our achievements, even with magic on their side."

"Hence secret little projects like ours," Angmthanz said. As he walked around into Dalzren's field of view again, it became apparent that he was grinning again. "See my point? See how you're falling apart already?"

"What?" Dalzren frowned. "I don't understand."

The older Dwemer laughed again, this time much more harshly. "Look at yourself! Really. No, look at yourself. Now. You're a failure. You don't grasp anything. You're just disintegrating."

Dalzren was in a trance. She looked down at herself obediently. Something was wrong. The table was covered in dark liquid—

It was blood.

Her hands were on the table, her gloved hands were on it, and the blood was leaking out of her sleeves. She suddenly felt faint. The flesh was only clinging to her bones because of the clothing holding it on. She was nothing but bones inside. The pain was so huge, so horribly searing, it felt almost numb. That didn't make sense.

She was bleeding. It wasn't stopping. She opened her mouth to cry out, and her world rolled back on itself.

A bright light was shining before her. After a few seconds, it became clear that a Dwemer's face was behind it. The old Dwemer. Angmthanz. He was looking down at her. Moving his mouth, making sounds.

"… can you understand me? Just nod if you can."

Dalzren willed herself to move. This was bewildering—and as soon as she thought that, she also realized that it was unacceptable. Her condition had just revealed itself to a peer of hers. No longer would their working relationship continue functionally, perhaps the damage wouldn't be as bad if he couldn't discuss this with others, but it was getting worse—if she couldn't control it—this was very bad.

But still, she forced her head to tilt upward and downward a hairsbreadth. Her muscles felt like they were all straining to contract at once, but she wasn't controlling them. In fact, she couldn't move.

Why wasn't she terrified for the right reasons? Fear was gripping her, and it was fear for her reputation as a designer. This all felt unreal.

Behind Angmthanz's face was a strange, curved wall. Dalzren recognized it as the ceiling. So she was flat on her back, and Angmthanz was crouching over her. Still, she couldn't move.

"Just relax," he was saying. "Take deep breaths. You fainted suddenly. You were spasming so hard, I thought you might hurt yourself, so I cast a paralysis spell on you. It'll wear off before long."

If she was paralyzed, then how could she still breathe? Was her diaphragm unaffected by the spell? She'd never even thought about that until this moment. But it must have. Her diaphragm, and her heart, and likely some other things—all muscles that had to keep running, or else a paralysis spell would kill the target by default.

She willed herself to speak. Her muscles could obey her that much, could they not? The effects of the paralysis spell were already beginning to palpably recede. There was no time. She had to salvage whatever she could of this mess.

"Must… must be overworked," she managed to say. "I don't… even know how long I've been here."

Angmthanz frowned. "Don't try and save face with me. I'm not going to remove you from the project for having a medical issue."

Dalzren said nothing. There was little arguing with that.

The older Dwemer sat down beside her on the floor, and asked, "What do you remember?"

Instantly, the images all came flooding back to her. The blood, the pain. The strange words. It was all upon her again. Her breath seized in her throat. But still, she said nothing.

"Be truthful," Angmthanz added. "It's important."

Dalzren tested her limbs' movement. Once she was confident it would work, she slowly propped herself up on one elbow, then on both. It was easier to look him in the eye this way. "We were talking. And you started saying I was falling apart. You called me a failure."

Was she truly saying this out loud? There wasn't any point in trying to keep a secret now, she supposed. This entire room was a secret anyway. Officially, Angmthanz had never even met her.

"And then…" She swallowed. This still wasn't easy. "And then… I looked down at myself, and there was blood. My flesh was peeling off. I must have been hallucinating madly. And… after that… I don't remember what came after that. I suppose I fainted."

Angmthanz was staring at her in a very strange way. Sitting perfectly still, focusing on her like she was a malfunctioning device. Or like she was carrying some great secret even now. It was deeply unsettling.

He replied, "Is this the first time this has happened to you?"

Another difficult question.

"No," Dalzren said, before she could convince herself not to. She didn't even understand her reluctance at this point. It was practically no more than habit to hide this. "No, this happened once before, a few weeks ago. I was taking off my boots, and one of my feet suddenly seemed to be… flayed. The flesh was shredded. When I woke up, however… it was all fine. The Domain of Healing couldn't find anything wrong with me. I thought perhaps it would be an isolated incident."

The older Dwemer opened his mouth silently for a moment. Then he pursed his lips together, looking down at the floor. Then he looked back up again, and raised a finger queryingly. "Have you done any unusual work with soul gems recently? Experienced any related anomalies? … Does that sound familiar to you?"

Dalzren shook her head. "The only thing I can think of is when I attended the first grand soul gem harvesting from the Falmer. Nothing went wrong then. Why do you ask?"

"Because I've heard of these symptoms before. Not in many decades, and not in Mzulft, but I have heard of them during my travels." Angmthanz folded his hands together in front of himself. The look on his weathered face was bordering on pity. It was more than a little disturbing. "It's called 'soul fray.' It's… it's a magical condition. You see, all living souls are the tethers between living bodies and Aetherius. That's what gives us life. Soul fray is a condition that happens in very rare circumstances, when soul trapping is handled improperly. The condition means that the… the soul's connection to Aetherius begins to unravel."

All Dalzren could think was how unlucky this was. Part of her felt compelled to solve this like any other problem, but the rest of her was screaming inside. The Domain of Healing didn't have a chance of helping her. She couldn't believe that this was happening, that she was hearing these words.

Angmthanz continued. "It manifests in the form of brief, sudden attacks. Loss of muscular control, hallucinations of mad happenings. Essentially… what you just described. The images of the body tearing itself apart are a mental projection. They represent what's happening to the soul. Over time, the attacks become more severe, and more frequent, and they eventually begin to affect other functions all the time."

Dalzren suspected she already knew the answer to her next question. But she had to ask anyway. Her voice was wavering, and her eyes were aching and… to her shock, they were welling up. But she had to ask. "So… what's the treatment?"

But Angmthanz simply shook his head.

Her voice came out much, much smaller than before. She didn't want to be speaking at all. "… how long do I have?"

"A year, maybe. Months. It depends when this began. And a lot of case-by-case variation." The older Dwemer composed himself briefly, and began again in his more professional demeanor. He had drifted very far from it. "There is a chance that this is an unrelated condition. If you truly haven't been subject to any anomalous soul trapping, then it may be simply some sort of curse, or another magical condition beyond the Domain of Healing's diagnoses."

"But it's not likely," Dalzren said, before she could help herself.

"It's difficult to say. These cases truly are rare. I've only heard of several, and not recently." He was being diplomatic. There was no hiding that. And there was no softening this blow. What he was describing wasn't simply the end of Dalzren's career. It was a death sentence. "I'll look into what I can for you. I still have contacts. In the meantime, you should rest, and avoid contact with more soul gems."

Dalzren felt like she was going to faint again. At some point, she had gone cold with sweat. This was her own death being discussed. What would happen if she died? Amalest would have to grow up without her. Somehow, that was worse than all of the rest combined.

Eventually, she said, "I don't know what to do. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to burden you with this."

Suddenly, Angmthanz reached out towards her with an outstretched arm. She flinched involuntarily. But then, to her surprise—he simply laid his hand upon her shoulder. For some reason, she had expected something worse.

"You're one of us," Angmthanz said, looking straight at her. His grip was very firm. Age, it seemed, had not robbed him of his strength. "If soul fray is truly taking you, then I will do everything in my power to keep you with us. Aetherius is a cruel place. Powerful—but cruel. I will not let its force of opinion destroy more of our number, and that includes you."

"Thank you," Dalzren replied numbly. She was running out of things to think. But it was becoming clear that she would need to think a great deal.

The machine she'd been working on these past weeks, the _thing_ whose purpose was beyond all of her reasoning, was no longer at the forefront of her thinking. Only her continued existence was. For her soul to be severed from its point of origin… she couldn't imagine the consequences.

But then a thought occurred to her. A painfully obvious one, but a thought all the same. It was worth voicing.

She glanced behind herself, at the giant gold-and-glass flower of a machine. "… You don't suppose this device of ours might help, do you?"

Angmthanz shrugged. "Don't ask me. I don't know what it's for either."


	18. Sheathing Blades

Tirdas, 10:10 AM, 16th of Hearthfire, 1E 173

Spire of Kyne

It had been tempting to try spending the last couple of days in a drunken stupor.

Yngva found it strange how she was compelled to that now. Even after hearing of her parents' violent death, she had never felt any desire to escape herself so totally. Perhaps it spoke to what things affected her identity as a person. No tragedy had ever made her question herself like this.

Oh, she had kept up her daily training, to be sure. Not even the moons falling out of the sky could have compelled her to abandon her precious collection of exercises and weapon drills. But the idea of using that training for anything meaningful was a distant dream.

If there was one thing she'd realized recently, it was that she understood nothing about her own life. Divayth had asked her a good question. How did she live with herself? What was the point of avenging her parents' death in some dramatic fashion, if it only served to perpetuate her stolen Nord legacy? Perhaps they had even deserved it.

There was no one to talk to about this. Yngva had been avoiding Whitehorn Hall recently—much like she had after learning the news about her parents, she noted. But this time, it was less because of her grief in general, and more because she wanted to avoid the people who were staying there.

Yngva didn't want to talk to any of her Nord colleagues about it. Those lessons had already been learned. Her colleagues—Hakind, the Jarl, the priests, whomever—would probably tell her about how the Falmer had attacked first, and how they had been casualties of war, and how the Nords weren't really guilty of anything in the end. They were good people, and the elves were evil; and if any elves disagreed, they were liars.

But she didn't want to talk to her new elven colleagues about it either. No doubt, Kel and Divayth both had valid points to make. On the other hand, if she had to listen to another word from either of them, she would likely end up killing somebody. It had gotten to that point, indeed.

Which led to her sitting up here, atop the Spire of Kyne, beneath the radiant pink leaves of the elderwood tree. It was rare for her to end up at the top of any of the city's three spires—they were only accessible to visitors on certain days and at certain times, and the Spire of Kyne in particular received quite a lot of interested guests. Sometimes, looking out the window of her home, she could see the little silhouettes of people standing around in the tree's shadow, all enjoying the view.

Incidentally, she could see her home from here. As well as the rest of the entire city. The view was staggering. All of the streets and buildings of Snowhawk were laid out below and around her like a map, stretching all the way out to the city walls. Directly down one street in particular, towards the city center, was the Snow Palace. The other two spires were behind it, at equidistant points: the Spire of Shor, and the Spire of Dragons. No matter which spire she used as a vantage point, it was always the same.

This was why the Hjaalmarch sigil was a three-armed spiral. The triangular theme had been the hold's iconic claim ever since the fall of Bromjunaar. One more tidbit she'd learned by growing up around an improbable number of books.

According to the priests who ran this place—not a book, in this case, merely word of mouth—the belltower of the Spire of Kyne was exactly one-hundred and fifty feet tall. Counting the extra height of the elderwood tree, it was the tallest structure in all of Snowhawk, breaking the tie with the other two spires. Of course, the clergy and staff who worked at the other two spires disagreed vehemently about whether the tree counted.

Clearly, someone needed to give them all more work to do, because it was a pointless argument. Yngva couldn't imagine caring about something like the three towers' respective heights. This was what happened when undeservedly wealthy Nords competed for prestige with each other—at least, when the competition didn't consist of drinking contests and fist fights.

But here Yngva was, and she was enjoying the quiet. The rooftop of the tower was a circular enclosure about twenty feet across, ringed by a waist-high stone wall, with the elderwood tree standing in the very center. Only a couple of other visitors were up here, plus a single priest standing vigil over the tree. They were content to ignore her, and she was content to ignore them.

The view of the city was more interesting. She didn't have to listen to anything but the sound of the wind. The stone rooftop was a bit cold to sit on, but still, here she sat, and everything was just… fine.

At least, until she heard a voice behind her say, "Yngva."

There couldn't possibly have been a worse voice to hear right now.

Still, the Nord girl turned around in her spot, and looked up at the voice's source. Sure enough, there stood Divayth, the one and only Chimer visitor, right there on top of the roof. He was dressed in a hooded gray cloak, fluttering gently in the wind. He certainly made a dramatic image of himself.

Yngva, for her part, was getting awfully tired of hearing people address her unexpectedly. Also, she wasn't sure how the elf had even gotten up here to begin with. Perhaps he'd talked his way past the priests down below. They didn't take terribly kindly to non-Nords trying to use the temple.

Yngva said without thinking, "What are you doing here?"

Divayth stared silently at her with a look that plainly indicated she'd asked a stupid question.

"I didn't think you'd come looking for me," she added, by way of explanation, looking down at the rooftop in front of herself.

The Chimer came over and sat down heavily on the stones, more or less exactly where Yngva had been staring. "I wanted to talk to you," he replied tersely.

No one else up here had yet to acknowledge his arrival. Perhaps he looked like any other pilgrim, with his hood raised. Perhaps he'd cast some illusion spell to make everyone uninterested in him unless he spoke to them—it wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility, at this point.

What was Yngva even going to say to him? She had to say something, because whatever Divayth was going to offer, it wasn't going to be pleasant to hear.

All she could think was that in Divayth's mind, she was some kind of perpetrator. And there might have been some real merit to that. The Nord world was built on the ruins of the Falmer world, she had known that for plenty of years. But the past two days, she had been unable to do… anything. It felt too horrible.

"I'm sorry," she said abruptly. "I don't think I can ever make amends for what I'm apologizing for, but I want to try. If there's some way to repay—"

"Stop. Just shut up." Divayth held up a gloved hand in front of her face. "Stop talking."

Yngva went silent. She couldn't even think of anything to do, now. Even her apology was unwanted? How was she meant to respond?

Divayth continued, "I was out of line to criticize you the other day. I'm a guest in your home. I owe you certain respects as my host."

For a moment, his words didn't even register in Yngva's mind. Was he saying something conciliatory? That was a historical first.

Perhaps Kel had spoken to him. That seemed likely.

"Thank you," Yngva said dully.

Divayth frowned briefly, but then shook his head and kept on talking. "It's important that we get this out of the way. I'm not—all right, listen. I'm not enjoying this conversation. But we have to have it. You've been a good host. All right? I said it."

Yngva shrugged. "Doesn't change anything else about me."

It didn't change anything else Divayth had said about her, rather. But she wasn't one to argue. And she wasn't one to exploit her position as a host to coerce people to bend to her will, either.

"Oh, for the love of…" The Chimer leaned forwards and rubbed his eyes with one hand. "Stop it. Just stop it, would you? You're not helping. It's bad enough that you're where you are. Don't just… sit around and cry about it, that never helped anyone."

Once again, Yngva said nothing. She was getting far used to being dissected by this elf.

"It really disturbs me that you're not arguing with me about this," Divayth said.

That was a strange thing to hear from the elf who was in the middle of dissecting her.

"I don't know what you want from me," she replied suddenly. "Do you want an argument? I'm sure you'll win it. I can't win against you…" She'd been about to say 'elves,' but then she remembered that there were other people within earshot. They likely didn't even know. "… I just can't. You're right. And you're better than me."

Divayth grunted irritably. "You are impossible. You're impossible to negotiate with. If you keep doing this, I'm going to… set myself on fire, I swear. Can't you tell I'm trying to work with you?"

"No," Yngva said.

"Uuuuuuuugh." The elf dragged his fingers over his face, slowly, forcefully. "Come on. Yngva. Please. You're going to have to travel soon, don't make this harder on me than it has to be."

Of everything Divayth had said so far, this made the least sense of all. There was no particular reason for Yngva to travel now. And if there were, it didn't have to involve Divayth, of all people. The sooner their lives would part ways, she imagined, the better.

Nevertheless, the question had been laid there for her to ask, so she decided to bite. "Why do I have to travel soon?"

"Because Kel can't help with the book," Divayth said, so quickly that he must have had the whole sentence waiting. "He's contacted everyone he can, studied it all he can, and he's given up on it. His advice is to take it to your Arcane College, up in Winterhold. It might be full of stolen knowledge, but it's full of knowledge. If anyone in Skyrim knows what this book is about, they do."

Yngva nodded thoughtfully. She supposed there wasn't much to be done about it besides following the advice. This would be her first time visiting the capital. For a moment, she wondered if she would be able to meet High King Harald in person. Perhaps if she requested an audience, or… no, that wouldn't help. At least she had some kind of direction again. This would have been surprisingly hard to come up with on her own.

Still, that left the second question untouched. So she asked, "Why does my travel make anything harder on you?"

This time, Divayth took longer to reply—much longer. He took a deep breath in, then let it back out slowly, and turned to lean back against the tower's low wall. His legs splayed out awkwardly on the stone in front of him. "Because…" the elf said slowly, before taking another breath. "He left for Whiterun three hours ago. He refused to bring me along with him. Said I'd be better-advised to travel with you."

Yngva gaped. Was Kel mad? Had he failed to notice how little she and Divayth got along?

It made no sense. But it instantly cast an ominous pall over the entire journey to come. It also instantly cast all of Divayth's half-hearted pushes towards reconciliation in a new light. He didn't care about the etiquette of guests and hosts. He certainly wasn't interested in Yngva moving forward with her quest for revenge. He merely wanted to go traveling with someone who didn't want to get rid of him.

An understandable desire, all things considered. Yngva almost shared it, except that the premise of traveling with Divayth was still terrible.

She asked, "Why did you agree to that?"

"Because I'd like to see the Arcane College, obviously." That scowl was back on Divayth's face. "And it's not safe for a single mer to travel through Skyrim alone. It's just also not safe to travel with someone who wants to cut my throat in my sleep. So this is where I am. Kel's abandoned me, and you hate me."

Now it was Yngva's turn to scowl. "Hold on. What? I don't hate you. Where did you get that idea?"

Divayth stared at her in obvious blank confusion. The only sound was the rustle of the wind through the tree leaves above. It felt monumentally awkward. Eventually, he said, "I figured you did that from the moment you laid eyes on me."

The Nord girl squinted. "… No?"

That seemed to throw the Chimer truly off. He opened his mouth silently, then turned away for a few seconds. Then glanced at her, then stayed silent for a few seconds longer. When he spoke again, he wasn't scowling anymore. "May I ask you a personal question?"

It was becoming increasingly apparent that Yngva had no idea what things were going on in Divayth's mind. She wondered how many of the elf's ideas would be even comprehensible to her. But whatever the details, it meant that there was no guessing what he would say or do next.

How could he have insinuated that Yngva would murder him in his sleep, and then declared his belief that she hated him enough for it, when they'd been having a civil conversation this entire time? Had he grown up in some demented land where people sat down for chats with their mortal enemies?

But then another thought occurred to her: Likewise to her own predicament, Divayth had very little understanding of what was in Yngva's mind. This entire line of thought that the Nord was exploring now might have been beyond Divayth's expectation of her. Perhaps it would be better to simply see what he wanted to ask.

"Yes," she said.

"Why are you a girl? I mean… you look like one, you sound like one. I suppose you act like one, for whatever little that's worth. But it makes no sense. I understand Nord society. Women have no special privilege here. If anything, they have a bit less. And you're the child of a Thane, so of course you'll want any bit of status you can get. Why do this?"

Divayth cleared his throat, and gave her an awkward glance.

"Do… do you understand what I'm asking? I don't know if… I mean, I think the whole thing is bizarre, but—"

"That's enough." Yngva raised her hand in front of Divayth's face. "Stop talking."

The Chimer laughed aloud. That was a surprise, indeed. But sure enough, he stopped, and waited afterwards for Yngva's reply.

She lowered her hand again slowly. What a rude gesture that had been to make. In any case: "It wasn't a choice. I just always knew that I didn't belong in a man's body. I'm not sure if I can explain it better than that."

"I'm sure you can," Divayth snorted, before softening and trying again. "I've never heard of anything like this. It's quite mystifying. I'm sure some of my old colleagues would want to… study you, somehow."

"No, thank you."

"I've been wondering about it, though," he continued without acknowledging her comment. "Kel didn't understand it either. He was just too busy tiptoeing around you to ask, or something like that. So it wasn't a choice? Just an aspiration? I wanted to be a mage when I grew up, you wanted to be a woman?"

Now Yngva laughed. "More or less! I don't think I understood the full implications of it, at first. I remember always wanting to have dresses like my mother had. I remember…" She closed her eyes briefly. Finally, she was talking about something she knew. It felt good. "… I remember when I was very young, five, six years old, I had a little stuffed doll I loved. I liked to tuck my shirt in and hold the doll inside it. It was one of my favorite things to play make-believe. Playing an expecting mother. Having a baby growing in my tummy."

The last time she'd discussed any of this, it had been years ago, with some friends of Hakind. It felt strange to be reciting it now, and to such a generally unfriendly listener, no less. But she was still being listened to. That had to matter.

"Really?" Divayth was staring at her again. This time, he was so wide-eyed, it looked like he was trying to see her in pitch darkness. "… What happened next?"

Yngva blew some air out from between her lips, raising her eyebrows briefly—it was a good question. "Well… I don't remember, entirely. My parents told me about it after the fact. They said that at first, they thought I was simply being silly. But at some point, they began to take it seriously. They had to change all the Jarl's documents about me—my birth name is Yngvi, that wasn't going to work. And I started going through some obscure treatments they'd learned about from the Dwemer. I think they were meant to promote health for natural-born women. That started when I was twelve. Came with a lot of potions to make sure I'd still grow to be strong, and a lot of exercises for the same. But the more it went on, the better I felt."

"I suppose it worked," the elf murmured.

"It hasn't interfered with my life overly much. I'm still a warrior, still a scholar, still a mage—no, not as much as you," she said, cutting off Divayth's skeptical look. "My mother had the gift for it, so do I. But, uh… I wouldn't consider all that background to be very important. Just think of me like a Nord girl, we should be fine."

"So can you bear your own young now?"

Yngva shook her head slowly. "Sadly, that's too much to ask for. But I'm fairly certain that even a barren woman counts as a woman. My Nord friends haven't given me any real trouble over it, thankfully. The only real problem is that I can't provide an heir for Hakind. The Jarl's son. I don't think you've met him, but… he and I are fairly close. It's an awkward situation. I suppose we all do our best."

A few seconds went by. Yngva wondered how long Divayth had been wondering about all of that. More likely than not, ever since he had learned about Yngva's circumstances of birth. Now the question was answered. They were free to move on. At least, as long as Divayth didn't have any harshly critical things to say about everything she'd just said.

Before he could come up with anything of the sort, Yngva spoke again. "So, we've been talking about me a great deal. What about you? You grew up in a place very unlike this one. You must have some fascinating stories to tell about your own background."

"They're not," the Chimer said flatly. "They're not fascinating. Trust me."

With that, he stood up suddenly, and turned for the stairs… though as he did, he held out a hand to help Yngva up. "Come on," he added. "We need to prepare for our journey. Plot a route, pack your things. The Arcane College won't stand waiting forever."

The Nord girl accepted the helping hand with a gracious nod, then dusted off her dress and jacket. Her rear was cold and almost numb where it'd been sitting on the stone. And the rest of her was a bit cold from the constant wind up atop the spire. She supposed the cold was going to be a constant for her in the coming weeks.

"Yes it will," she said.

Divayth turned away and headed for the stairs back down. The conversation, it seemed, was over.

On the way down, Yngva waved politely to the priest of Kyne in attendance. He waved back. Hopefully, he hadn't overheard too much of all this.


	19. The Place

Fredas, 6:56 AM, 19th of Hearthfire, 1E 173

Underground Stronghold

Emund woke up on his side. Pushed himself out of bed, sat up, began his daily preparations like usual.

According to the Dwemer clock on the nightstand, he'd woken up four minutes before the morning call. That was normal. He always woke up within ten or so minutes of it.

His room was small, windowless, undecorated, but it had everything he needed in it. A washbasin with grooming items, a few changes of fresh clothes in the cabinet—he kept the mask sitting on top. Only when he finished everything else would he put that on.

When he was out of his room, Emund always had to wear the mask. To protect against infiltrators, the people here were under orders to challenge and attack anyone in the stronghold they didn't recognize. And without the mask, he was literally and totally unrecognizable. He'd accepted that by now. It just meant that he had to put that on before leaving.

He fitted it over his head just as he walked out the door. Outside was a small corridor with plenty more doors like his. It led to a nice, open hall of low stone arches and magelight sconces. Here, two long tables ran the length of the room. They were slowly being filled by different people from different corridors. He recognized all of them, of course. They were members of the organization that had taken him in.

It had been over a month, and Emund still didn't know what this place was for. Over a month of back-breaking training and study, and he didn't know why these people were providing it for him.

The sheer amount of work alone should've driven him mad by now. It probably would've, if he hadn't found the Place in the process.

Emund turned and detoured into a doorway at the end of the dining hall. Just getting his breakfast from the kitchen. This was a much smaller space, with a stone serving counter running across most of the room. The chef, a stern old apron-wearing woman named Hilda (at least he thought that was it, they never talked), was serving snowberry porridge from a magically-heated copper cauldron. She gave Emund his share along with a goblet of ice water, on a wooden tray.

He headed straight back to the tables in the dining hall, and sat down at his usual spot, by the near end of the left table. Most of the spots around him were already full. Nords of all different walks of life, it seemed, sitting down for a breakfast together.

"Good morning," Emund said brightly. "Alind, Ren, Hanik."

Those were the people to his left, front and right. Young Nord man with short beard, young Nord woman with red hair, middle-aged Nord man with long beard. That was how he remembered them. There wasn't a lot to remember, because they also didn't talk to him much.

"Good morning, Gray One," Ren replied.

To be honest, Emund wasn't sure what any of these three even did in the stronghold. He only had a tiny little idea of how this place worked or what anyone did. The main thing he knew was that he was a guest here, and if they weren't going to ask questions, he wasn't either.

He ate his porridge in silence. This dining hall was always so quiet. Nothing like the Whitefeather Inn, that was for sure. It was actually a little unsettling how everyone just didn't talk here. The snowberries really tied the porridge together, though, so it wasn't all bad.

As Emund was finishing up, he looked up suddenly and asked, "I've been wondering: Is it always this quiet in here, or have you all just stopped saying anything because I'm here with you?"

The people around him exchanged glances briefly. Maybe that was meaningful somehow.

Alind said, "We don't have a lot to talk about. We're not allowed to know about each other's work, mostly. Safety reasons."

"Right." Emund nodded. "Spies, right? You're worried about spies? They won't have much to report without talking to anyone. Besides the location of the farm, I guess."

"If even that," the young Nord man smirked.

Emund frowned at him. "Wait—what do you mean? Do _you_ know where we are?"

Nobody replied. There was just a faintly amused silence in the air.

Breakfast continued normally. The porridge was very filling.

It was hard to imagine his old life, compared to this. Living in Tvalistead, working for his father in the inn. That all felt like distant history. Had he actually had to cook everyone's food in the morning? What a bore that must've been.

But he missed it. There'd been plenty of time to think about that, now that he was in this strange place. Emund missed being around his friends—and his father, even if he hated to admit that. He missed seeing more than one scheduled hour of sunlight per day. All the fresh air, all the open sky—it was amazing how much he'd taken that for granted. But most of all, Emund missed how simple everything had felt.

That part would never, ever come back for him.

When Emund finished eating, he brought his empty dishes back to the kitchen, then set off past everyone else in the dining hall towards the far set of doors—towards the rest of the stronghold. There was no point in staying around to talk more. He had his day's work to begin.

From what he'd seen, the stronghold seemed to be designed sort of like a tree. The main hall was the trunk, and then the secondary rooms were branches, and the smaller corridors and chambers were the very ends. The dining hall was one of the branches. So was Emund's destination.

He didn't really know what was in all of this place. The people here hadn't exactly given him a grand tour. Which was fine, because he didn't especially care.

The destination room was another low, open space. Perfectly square, with a floor completely covered in woven matting. A large black ring was dyed into it, taking up about half the room's space. The rest was full of racks for wooden weapons and padded armor.

Gelther was already waiting at the far end of the ring, feet wide apart in a side-leaning stretching pose. Warming up just for him.

Emund joined him in silence. A few minutes went by. The two of them did this every other day, with days off for rest. And by rest, Emund meant somewhat less exhausting exercise.

Eventually, the older Nord went over and put on an arming jacket and leather helmet. Emund rushed through the rest of his stretching, and came over to do the same.

"We'll start with the staff," Gelther said, once they were within speaking range. "Go through the drills."

"Aye." Emund nodded. He knew the routine.

Once they were both outfitted, Gelther walked over to the weapon rack, and picked up two quarterstaffs, tossing one to Emund.

He caught it out of the air effortlessly. They both headed into the ring, and took up their fighting stances.

The quarterstaff wasn't a common first choice of weapon. Most warriors, if they were to carry a pole around already, preferred to have a spear or an axe head on the end. But there was something about the plain quarterstaff that felt right to Emund. The sheer simplicity, maybe. Or the fact that unlike every other melee weapon he'd held, both ends were good for striking as well as holding.

Certainly not the reduced lethality. Even before he'd come here, Emund had known that a quarterstaff could crush a man's skull just as easily as any war hammer. Now he had that power in his hands.

Gelther said, "Form one."

Emund took a deep breath in. Closed his eyes momentarily. Now was the time for him to begin to enter the Place.

The Place was the only reason he'd survived this long in training. It was hard to describe. It felt like the dreams that he kept having, the ones with the dark floating shards. He could feel them there, whispering over the edges of his mind, like a soothing terrible melody.

It hadn't been there, at first. Not nearly so clear. But the first time Emund had picked up a weapon in this room, he'd felt something… strange. And he'd still blundered pathetically through the stances and drills afterward, but the feeling stayed with him. And the next time, the feeling was stronger. And soon he'd recognized the shards, and the extra thoughts, and the fleeting glimpses—and it sounded crazy, he knew that for sure, but that didn't stop it from working.

Emund couldn't describe it as a peaceful thing. It mainly just unsettled him. But it was still a sort of trance. It guided him through everything, led him where he couldn't keep up, showed him what he couldn't understand. Emund couldn't feel like he was using the Place. The Place had its own ideas.

He focused on reality again halfway through the drills. Gelther was swinging alternating downward blows at him, and he was checking them and countering with his own strikes, stepping back and forth over the matting. His heart was beating fast, his muscles were running hot. It was all in control.

Whose control, though? There was no answer.

The drills were complicated. Gelther put his quarterstaff back, and exchanged it for a wooden sword, still against Emund's staff. More drills followed. Then Gelther added a shield and they continued. Then he exchanged those for a blunted metal longsword. Every time, they went through a whole bunch of long exchanges of strikes and parries, repeating each one over and over again. Sometimes they involved grappling or disarming. They were all complicated.

In the past, Gelther had said that Emund seemed to be learning something like half a year's worth of material every week. It was the Place, no doubt. Supplying some sort of base instinct for him, some deep-set foreknowledge of all these techniques.

Emund didn't understand why his Elder Scroll-induced dream world wanted him to be good with weapons. He couldn't exactly ask it.

Eventually, they'd worked through to the end. Gelther hung up his longsword on the rack, and went over to the other corner. To save time, the room had a big cask of water on a little table there, sitting next to a stack of wooden cups. It was like one of the mead casks Emund had served drinks from at the inn, with a spigot on the bottom edge to fill things easily.

It was easier than going off to some other spot for water. Saved time.

Emund headed over for a drink as well. Now that he was stepping out of the Place, back into something like reality, he was noting that he'd broken a bit of a sweat. And he was still breathing hard, and his throat was dry. That had all just crept up on him.

As he poured his own cupful, Emund asked, "Is it really a good idea to have this here unsupervised in the training room? What if someone poisoned it?"

"The room is locked when no one's in here," Gelther replied coolly. He'd pulled his helmet off. His gray hair beneath was all matted and disheveled, but being a proud Nord warrior, he obviously didn't care. "Dwemer-made lock. Basically unpickable."

"Someone could steal a key." Emund took a swig from his cup anyway. The water gave his throat a nice cool wash of relief. He always liked how that felt, the very first drink after some hard work.

"Not likely. Only a few of us even have the keys. They're distributed on a need-to-have basis."

"I suppose it's not a good place to try and poison everyone anyway. Too few people drink from here at a time."

Gelther stared at him silently.

"But whoever refills the cask could always slip in a little pinch of something extra. Some nightshade extract, maybe. Something that works when you ingest it. At the very least, it'd kill whoever used the training room next. That could be enough."

At this, the older Nord chuckled lowly. "You've been learning from our book, eh?"

"Well, it's not like I've been doing nothing but spar." Emund offered a little shrug while he drained the rest of his cup. "Or like you've been the only one teaching me things. I'm learning just by being around all your paranoia."

"I'm still the only one working with you each day."

"Aye, you're a very wide-reaching mentor. Do you want to spar now?"

Gelther nodded, finished his own cup quickly, and strode over to the weapon rack. He retrieved the same quarterstaff he'd started with.

Presumably, after this, they'd move on to drills for another weapon, or for unarmed fighting. That was the usual routine. But staff fighting was always Emund's favorite. He couldn't explain why. It just felt good.

As he returned to the ring, he asked, "What if you hit me in the head, and you knock my helmet and mask off, and all of the sudden you don't recognize me?"

Gelther gave his quarterstaff a deft twirl in both hands, and brought it around into a defensive fighting stance, held high and pointed forward. "Have some trust in me, Gray One. Really."

Emund closed his eyes once again. The Place awaited him. All he had to do was allow himself to slip into it.

Dark shards turned and shimmered in the corners of his mind, flashing with glimpses of faraway images. They circled around him like a cradle, or a shroud, cold and hollow and all-encompassing.

He stepped forward at the same that Gelther did. Brought his staff up into a crossing parry. Gelther's first strike came down hard upon it with a _crack_ of wood against wood. The spar was on.

Immediately, his opponent withdrew the strike. Emund anticipated a thrust. He stepped back and swung his staff in a defending arc, upward instead of forward. And sure enough, he swatted the thrust away, connecting with the portion of the staff right above his hands. He brought it back around for a low attack to the legs.

Gelther was on him in the blink of an eye. A painful impact struck Emund's upper arm. Gelther had just dropped their bind entirely and brought the low end of his staff past it. A butt strike to the arm. It would have been better served as a strike to the head.

Except for that whole thing about knocking the mask off of him.

"Hit," Emund said.

They both withdrew, and began once more.

This wasn't going to work if Emund didn't focus. He focused on the fight, on his adversary—on the Place. The thoughts all flowed as one. He didn't understand this altered way of thinking, and right now… right now he couldn't afford to try. Focus. He had to breathe and focus.

Where were those shards? They were floating past him, tinkling against each other like broken glass, tantalizing him with reminders of moments he'd never lived—

Gelther made the first strike again. And again, it was a downward swing from a high guard. Time to act.

Emund darted to the left, parrying on the way to keep the weapon from coming after him. He brought his hands together on the staff for an upward swing to the head—instantly parried. More strikes rained in, right then left then right, and he had to spread his grip again to defend against them. Gelther wasn't letting him in. It was an onslaught.

He stepped back a couple paces, keeping his stance level, and readied himself for a counterattack.

"Out of the ring," Gelther said.

Emund glanced down. His back foot was on the wrong side of the floor's black line.

When he looked back up, the end of Gelther's staff was right in front of his face. There wasn't even any need. Emund had already forfeited the point. He was just adding insult to injury.

"Thank you," Emund replied flatly.

They both resumed their starting positions.

This wasn't working. Emund wanted to win this spar. At least once, he wanted to win it, fair and square. But he knew he wasn't just testing his martial skill. He was testing his connection to the Place. Chances were, if he wanted to earn a real life again, he'd have to rely on that connection a whole lot.

So he closed his eyes, and focused himself on the Place again. Now was the third try. Everything worked on the third try, didn't it?

The shards were in there, lurking somewhere, waiting for him. They were circling around him, waiting for him to do something. But they were incomplete, fragmented, missing vital parts. And in its own way, Emund's bond to them was incomplete too. He was failing to grasp something.

Some knowledge, some opportunity. Some hidden truth.

Out of the furthest reach of his mind, he caught a glimpse of something. He'd seen it before. A face, a glint in an eye. A familiar memory.

It was like being wrenched out of his own mind, like pulling a joint out of its socket. The sensation physically hurt him. He was suddenly seeing something very different.

The sun was shining brightly. It arced through the sky, tracing its path across the undulation of the ecliptic curve, again and again, all blurring into one.

The girl was confused. The young girl in the field was watching an unseen exchange, and she didn't understand the words. It hardly mattered to her—she merely wanted to go back to playing with her dog. He was waiting for her, wagging his tail. But she was watching, and it didn't make sense.

Somewhere, a face looked upon him—upon Emund, directly—and silently pleaded with him to listen. A deathly chill ran through his core. Those blue eyes were still glaring, waiting for him to make a mistake. He was being judged from all sides. One misstep would be fatal.

A single glinting red droplet fell past him, and splashed on a cold floor.

Gelther began with a thrusting attack, straight forward to the chest. Emund's staff shot out and deflected it sideways. His left foot went sideways, right behind Gelther's back. His staff slid in between Gelther's own staff and arms, and his right hand let go to grab onto his staff's far side. His body wrenched to the right, and Gelther's staff tore out of his hands, flying off to clatter on the floor.

Before the staff even landed, Emund's left hand had reached past Gelther's throat. His body turned back to the left, pulling on Gelther's neck by the far side. Gelther moved to steady himself, tripped on Emund's leg, and fell sprawling on the floor.

Emund whipped his staff down in both hands, and stopped it just short of Gelther's chest. This easily would have meant a crushed ribcage. Punctured lungs, maybe punctured heart. A fatal blow.

"Hit," he said.

Gelther put himself up on one elbow, and grinned mirthfully up at Emund, no worse the wear for his defeat. "Aye. Aye, it was."

Emund held out a hand to help the older Nord up onto his feet. Then, suddenly, the pain caught up with him. It jolted through his head like a blade. "Ouch," he said aloud. "I think I tried too hard for that one."

"Take your time," Gelther said, heading over to retrieve his staff where it had rolled off to. "But when you're ready, we'll have to do the same with arming swords."

The pain was too much, at first. But it faded slowly. Emund sat down on the floor, and waited for it to recede. He'd pushed himself too hard just now. He'd devoted too much of himself to trying to win.

There was probably a lesson in that somewhere.

Eventually, he replied, "I don't know if I can match you like that in arming sword. In fairness."

Gelther laughed incredulously. "Match me? I didn't _teach_ you that technique. We might not be able to see your life, but I know what I've done with you."

"While I've had the mask on."

"While you've had the mask on, Gray One."

Emund slowly pushed himself back to his feet. The pain had faded enough. The Place wanted him to keep working, and he didn't disagree. "Well, maybe you're not the only one teaching me after all."


	20. Alone in the Wild

Turdas, 6:30 AM, 25th of Hearthfire, 1E 173

Whiterun Hold

Yngva awoke to the sound of buzzing.

Not the buzzing of a fly, or a bee, or a dartwing. No, those sounds would all have been too gentle. Yngva awoke to an unholy dirge of metallic shrieking, for which 'buzzing' could only be a generous euphemism. It was enough to make her jump out of her bedroll and hit her head on the leather tent above.

An instant later, her mind caught up with her, and she remembered what the sound was. Not a threat, nothing to be afraid of. Her heart was still pounding in her chest, and her head still ached. It was thoroughly unpleasant.

But before she could properly react, the noise stopped with a sudden click.

"Good morning," Divayth murmured from the bedroll beside her. His outstretched hand was resting on top of a Dwemer metal contraption just by their pillows. A clock, with a timer to sound a bell inside. Except that the bell was less like the sort from the spires of Snowhawk, and more like the sort that made Yngva's ears bleed.

"I hate that device," the Nord grumbled, faltering for a moment before collapsing back into her bedroll. She took a deep breath in. "Shall we, uh…"

Divayth was already climbing out of the tent. "We shall."

Yngva glowered after him for a few seconds, then followed him out. She was promptly met by such a frigid morning air that she instantly jolted the rest of the way awake.

Both of them were in their night clothes: Yngva, a simple gown, and Divayth, some elven full-body undergarment. Eventually, they would end up in their armor and robes, respectively. But for now, there was little to do but endure the cold.

The Dwemer metal 'device' in their tent was the result of a long bickering session the two of them had had at the start of their journey. Ordinarily, with the goal of traveling to Winterhold, Yngva would have stayed on the major roads, and made use of inns and keeps along the way for shelter. But she refused to put Divayth in danger by bringing him past so many other Nords, so far away from the watchful eye of city guards.

Divayth, meanwhile, hated the idea of spending a day longer on this journey than he had to. And naturally, walking through the countryside would take much longer than walking along paved roads. So their compromise was to trek through the wilds of Skyrim, but to do it sixteen hours a day.

Many healing spells were involved.

Outside the tent, the outdoor expanse felt empty. Yngva was looking upon the plains of Whiterun Hold, with grass and dirt and rocks in one rolling hill after another. A sporadic few streams and ponds crisscrossed the landscape, with a scant handful of trees and shrubs dotted between them. On another day, it would have been a beautiful view. But today, gray clouds blanketed the sky, casting the entire land in a gloomy pallor.

But beyond all of their bleak surroundings, the horizon was marked with the high peaks of the hold's borders. To the southeast was the giant silhouette of the Throat of the World. To the north were the mountains of Bromjunaar. Others stood at different points, indicating Yngva and Divayth's location even without a map or compass—although they had both. This was her kingdom. She belonged here.

Or so she continued telling herself. It felt hollow every time. Even if it were true, their path only veered so far into the wilderness because Divayth _didn't_ belong here. And they had already spoken about her unfair advantages as a Nord in Skyrim.

They'd pitched their tent a short distance from a stream nearby—essentially, just far enough away to not need to worry about mudcrabs. Directly beside the tent stood a young evergreen tree, to which their pack horse was tethered. A pile of rocks sat in front of the tent, for cooking without firewood. That was all.

"I hope it doesn't rain," Divayth said, heading over to their pack horse and retrieving a large Dwemer metal pot. He had to heft it in both arms. "This journey's gone on long enough without our trail turning to mud."

Yngva followed after him and began removing items from one of the saddlebags. She replied sidelong, "Can you go five minutes without complaining about the journey? You don't hear me making comments about your Dwemer clock of insanity."

"No one asked you," Divayth snapped, storming off in the direction of the stream.

The Nord girl was not fazed. "And we're not on a trail. We're walking through wild grass here."

He called back over his shoulder, "I'm going to drown you in the stream in a second."

Breakfast today would consist of salt-cured beef, red apples and river water. They'd boil the water in the metal pot, use some of it for cleaning, and then pour the rest into skins for drinking. Just like usual.

A minute later, Yngva returned to the rock pile bearing a small basket of supplies. Enough to get them through the first meal of the day—the second, last meal would be around sundown. She laid down the basket just in time to hear a wailing scream from the riverbank, just out of sight past the slope of the plain.

"AAAAUGH! It's a slaughterfish! Yngva! A slaughterfish is eating my face off! Save me with your mighty sword!"

Yngva rolled her eyes and waited.

Another minute later still, Divayth came trudging back up the hillside with the metal pot hanging heavy between his hands. It was sloshing with water—literally sloshing, with some spilling over the edges every few steps. He set it down a short distance from the rock pile, then immediately collapsed onto his knees and began casting a healing spell on himself.

"You should fetch the water," the Chimer said breathlessly. "With your Nord muscles. You know. I'm too puny for these things."

Yngva headed over and picked the metal pot back up, bringing it the rest of the way along. "I assume if I'd gone to save you from the slaughterfish, you would have simply, ah… cheerfully asked me to help you carry the water back."

"Maybe," Divayth said behind her.

"You might have been better-served by calling out something like: 'Yngva! Could you please help me move this water?'" She set the pot back down directly beside the rock pile. This was close enough.

"I was testing your gallantry."

"Mm hmm." Yngva shot Divayth a glance as she circled around the rock pile. The largest rock, a mostly-flat slab of shale, was sitting on top. "Are you ready, or do you still need a minute to replenish your magicka?"

Divayth strolled casually over to stand beside Yngva, cracking his knuckles before holding one open hand out at the pit. "I'm ready. On three."

With that, the Nord lifted her own hand in kind. Divayth counted them off, and then on three, they each let off a stream of blazing magical fire on the base of the rock pile.

Yngva had to concentrate to do this. She knew the spell now, but it was taxing. She could feel the heat against her palm, far too gently for such a nearby flame—a required oddity of spellcasting. But on and on it went, second after second, and her magicka steadily depleted.

She lasted a little under ten seconds, and then her flame sputtered down to nothing. There was no way to continue it. She could feel the absence of power in her mind, the inert feeling of an empty magicka reserve. It would take time to replenish.

And Divayth, of course, was still going. He continued for another twenty seconds or so—staring expressionlessly at the rocks, bathing them with a constant flow of destruction magic—before eventually stopping and lowering his hand as well. By that time, the rocks were likely near to the point of glowing red.

After a moment, the Chimer turned to her with an eyebrow raised. "Are you sure you're trying?"

"Shut your mouth," Yngva muttered, before picking up the basket and slapping the cured beef down on the flat stone. It immediately began letting out a gentle hiss as it cooked.

To her surprise, Divayth actually obeyed. He walked back to the pack horse in silence, then came back with his waterskin, still barely filled from the day before. Then he sat down opposite Yngva by the rock pile, and waited.

Yngva sat down as well. The grassy earth was a little damp with morning dew, but she didn't find she much cared.

"So," Divayth said, once they were both seated. "I had a very strange dream."

"Well, I hope your Dwemer device didn't jolt you out of the good part," the Nord replied. Her eyes were still on the beef. She was hoping it wouldn't burn. Cooking meat on a hot stone was still fairly new for her.

The elf snorted mirthfully. "Actually, it did. The actual dream was a whole lot like real life, but … better. I was on this journey with you, except you were a beautiful Chimer girl—"

"Shut your _mouth!_ " Yngva couldn't keep the laughter out of her voice. But in reply to that jest, she lunged for the basket again, grabbed an apple, and threw it straight at Divayth's head.

Naturally, it hit him in the face. He reeled back for a moment as the fruit landed in his lap. Then he picked it up and began eating it like nothing had happened. "So, uh, actually…" He took a very large bite out of the apple, then continued speaking with his mouth full. "I did have a dream, but it was about some things I didn't really understand. And some things I did. I'm not sure how much of a good idea it is for me to talk about it, except I don't want to lose the idea."

While Divayth was talking, Yngva used her knife to flip the pieces of beef over. In order to keep the main slab hot, she gave the rocks underneath an extra jet of flame from her hand, careful to aim it from the side so it wouldn't accidentally set her traveling companion alight.

"Keep going," she said idly.

The Chimer nodded, evidently not in a mood to resist being convinced. "I remember looking out over a valley full of trees. It was sunny. But there was this thick, gray fog rolling down the valley, down past me. And everything the fog touched, it withered and died on the spot. And I remember faces looking down at me, telling me not to go down. But I wanted to go down to the fog anyway, because there was someone I needed to save. … It felt very unlike me, that's for sure. It was strange."

Yngva glanced around the plains. She supposed this weather could turn foggy before long. Something about that story was making her feel a chill inside her. Yet to the best of her ability, she brushed it off. "Not all dreams are prophetic. That could have been any far corner of your mind talking."

"Even so." Divayth rubbed his chin as he stared into space. "It was… it felt different from the usual. You know, I have dreams sometimes about Veloth. Memories. The first time I saw someone die, for example—no, don't worry," he hastened to add, seeing Yngva's reaction, "he was a real piece of work, he deserved it. But still."

"Hmm."

A few more seconds passed. Divayth furrowed his brow, then sighed and leaned back on his knuckles.

"I don't even know why I'm telling you this," he grumbled. "I'd be better served writing it down. You're not going to give me any new insights. 'Any corner of my mind.' Thanks a lot."

Yngva rubbed her eyes. She didn't know what to say to this elf anymore. He had a mind of his own, and there was no understanding it. He willfully prevented anyone from doing so.

After another span of silence, the Nord checked on their breakfast again. It looked to be about cooked. She cut open one of the pieces of beef on the rock to be sure, then picked up the half-piece on the tip of her knife and began eating.

It was salty, without a doubt, and a bit burnt-tasting where the rock had seared the meat. Besides that, it was lean, but not overly tough. Edible, nourishing, only there for necessity. Certainly a far cry from cinnamon rolls.

By the time Divayth began eating his share of the meat, Yngva had already moved on to her apple. They ate in joyless silence. This was also their routine. A lot of going through motions without talking, a lot of refusing to follow up on whatever contentious point had been made.

Eventually, their breakfast was done, and so the remainder of the morning affairs unfolded. They heated the pot of water, washed off with it, filled their waterskins, dressed up for the day, packed their things, fed the horse, and proceeded onward. The sun was rising, no doubt, but in this weather it was impossible to tell. Everything was the same uniform gray.

There was little to do but walk alongside the path of the stream. That, and try not to focus on the bizarre conversation they had just had. Even by Divayth's standards, that had been erratic. But since neither of them were talking, they simply walked along, side by side, with the pack horse trailing on a lead looped on Yngva's wrist.

Yngva generally enjoyed the outdoors, but outfitted in her armor, the walk was taxing in a similar sense to her morning drills at home. The arming jacket trapped her body heat, the helmet constricted her vision, and it was all heavy and constricting. She would require healing spells from Divayth at least a few times today, simply to replenish her stamina. Still, it could have been worse. This particular suit of armor was fairly light and nimble, with leather pieces reinforced by flexible bands of steel plates. Since she lacked a housecarl, and Divayth was in no way trained to help armor her, she'd needed to bring a suit of armor she could don herself.

It worked out well. In full plate, she would have required a second horse to ride on, and then Divayth would have wanted a third for himself, and then they could forget managing a ride through sheer wilderness. Yngva suspected that Divayth wasn't even a particularly versed rider in the first place.

But that was all right, because he was a mage. He was a very good mage. That was why he was better than Yngva—he was a mage and he was an elf. Or so he gave the impression. It was impossible not to resent.

Ahead in the distance, a soft yellow light was visible on the near bank of the stream. Yngva noticed it when they were still a few minutes' walk away.

She asked, "That's a nirnroot, isn't it?"

"I think so," Divayth said, squinting ahead intently. "I've never seen one in person. They don't grow in Veloth. The soil is all wrong for it, which is a shame. They're a treasure of Tamriel. I've read a fair bit of Ayleid literature about them, and, ah… well, I'd pick this one, but I don't think I'm a skilled enough alchemist to justify it."

At least she'd gotten the Chimer to show some interest in something. The truly shocking part was that in doing so, he had admitted that he wasn't skilled enough at his own talents to do something he wanted. Yngva savored the moment in silence.

Her companion continued, "We have no small amount of magical riches in Veloth. I suppose in that sense, Skyrim is much like it. We have a mountain taller than any other in Tamriel—your Throat of the World comes close. We have vast open landscapes, some fertile like this one, some as desolate as your northern holds. And like Skyrim, we're home to a rich, ancient people, who contend with the Dwemer for resources and power. There's really only one main difference."

"Let me guess," Yngva said. "It's that Veloth is full of Chimer and Skyrim is full of Nords."

Divayth flashed her an almost guilty smile. "All right. Maybe you have a few wits about you after all."

Well, at least she had seen it coming.

She looked back ahead. The nirnroot was getting closer. "Nords aren't an ancient people, though. The Atmorans are, but we've cast off that name. As Atmorans, we were conquerors from another land. As Nords, we call this place our home, and protect it accordingly."

"It sounds nice when you put it that way, but I'm not going to give your race congratulations for paving roads and building mills. Everyone does that. Stop slaughtering elves, then maybe we'll talk."

Yngva held her arms out silently, palms up. She stared at Divayth empty-handed. It was an obvious gesture.

"Yes, yes, I know." Divayth rolled his eyes. "You're just some clueless child in the middle of it all, you don't have to remind me. Come on, though. Look at us. You're out here to benefit yourself. Get your nice revenge in on whoever got your parents, and call it a day."

"As though you're here out of kindness," Yngva said, before she could stop herself.

The Chimer paused for a moment. He shrugged. "There's that. Just don't act like I started this."

Ahead of them, the shape of the nirnroot was clearly visible. It was a large, low plant, with a cluster of jagged, deep green leaves sprouting from one point on the ground. The entire thing was bathed in an aura of warm golden light. And it was letting out a gentle ringing sound in the air. A lulling, almost eerie chime, constantly audible over the coursing of the stream. There was no doubting that this was a magical plant.

The two travelers approached it in silence. When they got within a stone's throw, Divayth moved past Yngva and crouched down in front of the plant, examining the leaves up close.

This wasn't Yngva's first time witnessing a nirnroot growing in the wild. She watched in patient silence, waiting to see what would happen.

"Well, hello," Divayth murmured, still looking at the nirnroot in front of him. He reached into the aura with one hand and ran his bare fingertips along the tops of the leaves. A smile briefly flickered on his face.

Yngva looked up past him, at the endless expanse of Skyrim still ahead. The stream wound into the plains out of sight, and past that was a long, empty stretch of land. Farmhouses were visible sometimes in the far distance. At some point, they would travel past the north of the city of Whiterun, where Kelthenez was—but they wouldn't go there to see him. This entire leg in Whiterun Hold was simply a detour to delay the inevitable. After this, they would veer north into the Pale, into the snowswept evergreen lands. And then it would be a long, freezing trek through mountain passes and across fields of packed ice, all the way up to Winterhold.

This would be a long, long journey to come. Every moment of happiness counted.


	21. When Logic Failed

Morndas, 7:21 PM, 22nd of Hearthfire 1E 173

Mzulft

In a sea of conversation and companionship, Dalzren sat alone.

She sat at a stone table for two, in the corner of a large, softly-lit room. The Grand Tavern, they called it, with more than a little sardonic self-awareness. Dwemer of all social strata converged here, arriving in their casual wear with no marks of rank. They took tables for two and four and six, dining on the finest food and drink from above and beneath the ground. Anyone who grew tired of meals in their own homes could come here, as long as they could pay for their orders.

Crowds of Dwemer talked and laughed. Across the room on a small elevated stage, a musician played a soothing tune on a harp. The scent of fresh savory food, laden with aromatic spices, filled the air.

Dalzren was dying. She could deny it no longer. Her body was as healthy as it had ever been, but her soul was slowly peeling away. And it could not be stopped.

Two weeks. For two weeks, she had waited, working as much as she could on that secret project, putting on a brave face for everyone else. And no progress had been made. Only this evening did Dalzren have a chance to learn more.

She'd had two more attacks since the one in her hidden workspace. Once when she had just seen Amalest off for his day, and once when she had been bathing. She had witnessed her body deforming and melting, blood draining away, flesh falling apart, and she had gone unconscious afterward, like the previous times. It horrified her even more now, knowing what it meant. It was her soul being unraveled.

The reason for the wait was simple: Rideroc had been traveling abroad as part of a delegation to Avanchnzel. She had been forced to bide her time until the younger Dwemer's return.

But today, he and the others had come back, their meeting having concluded without any noteworthy event. And Dalzren had arranged for him to meet her in the Grand Tavern. So here she sat, alone at a table for two, staring at a drink she had yet to touch.

At times like this, she almost regretted that her people took such pride in avoiding the intoxicating substances consumed by Nords and others. The only alcohol they used was the distilled cleaner they called san. She wasn't desperate enough to try to imbibe that.

A strange paradox had unfolded. Dalzren found that sleep helped stave off the effects of the Soul Fray. But so many of her attacks had happened in her home. She had taken to sleeping in the hidden room, nearby the unknown machine, for lack of a better place. There seemed to be a certain thought pattern that aggravated the attacks, and it happened to her much more in her own residence.

And that led her directly to this evening. She had a suspicion, a deep sinking suspicion that prickled at her mind, and she had to know the truth. This was the only way she would find it, or at least the only way she could think of. All other options had failed her.

"There you are," Rideroc said.

Dalzren looked up. She hadn't even noticed the Dwemer coming in. He stood over her, the picture of prosperous young adulthood, hale and fit, dressed in a stylish embroidered doublet over long dark purple sleeves and breeches. His beard was decorated with new gleaming gems, and he was looking down at her with a winning smile.

Without looking at his face, Dalzren wouldn't have even recognized him. This outfit was vastly more expensive than Rideroc should have been able to afford. Either he had borrowed a sum of money he couldn't possibly pay off, or that trip to Avanchnzel had delivered a shockingly great bounty to Mzulft.

Still, the older Dwemer smiled. "Rideroc. Welcome back to Mzulft. I trust your great secret journey was a success?"

She hoped she didn't have another Soul Fray attack during this conversation. Her reputation as a Designer couldn't afford that sort of public failing. The only reason why she had invited Rideroc to the Grand Tavern was because the only private space she could offer was her own home. That was even worse.

"Wasn't that much of a secret," Rideroc shrugged amiably as he sat down, flagging a waiter with a raised hand. They used living staff here, not automatons like in the public halls—the orders were generally too complicated for a machine to convey. "The Domain of State was in talks with Avanchnzel's foreign office to exchange cultivars of our staple seedlings. I got involved because I happen to work with those nowadays. It was actually a lot of fun."

So they were going to have a polite conversation first. That was fair. Perhaps it would be nice to catch up anyway.

"It was fun talking about seedlings?" Dalzren raised an eyebrow.

Rideroc fixed her with a mock glare. "Hey. I don't question your great deliberations over the perfect shape of toilet scrubber. Respect the plants, please."

At that moment, a young barely-bearded server walked up to their table with a wax tablet and stylus in hand. He smiled brightly at Rideroc and said, "Good evening! What can I get for you?"

"Snowberry tea, please," the seated Dwemer answered. "That'll be all. Thank you."

"Very good! You'll have that soon." The server jotted a few lines down on the tablet, then left with the same chipper attitude as with his arrival.

Rideroc arched an eyebrow at the server's back for a few seconds, before turning back to Dalzren. "Happy boy," he muttered. "Must be glad not to work in the rigor of a domain, like us."

Dalzren simply shrugged. She couldn't bring herself to speculate on some random worker's mentality.

"You haven't touched your drink," Rideroc said. "What's on your mind?"

Again, she shrugged. But this time she took an obliging sip from her earthen mug. Her tea had gone tepid. It tasted like paper on her tongue. Still, she drank.

"A few things, I suppose," she replied, cutting off whatever comment Rideroc had been about to follow up with. "I'm likely a bit overworked."

"Ah, yes. You were working on an… independent project, right?"

"Right."

"Well, I won't pry." Rideroc dropped his voice to a conspiratorial volume. "Although anything you can tell me about this latest crisis would be appreciated."

Dalzren blinked slowly. Either she was having another attack now, or Rideroc was referring to something she'd missed out on.

In the interest of diplomacy, she said, "First, tell me what you've heard."

Rideroc scratched his head. The mental backtracking was obvious on his face. "Oh, well, uh… things seemed normal enough when I left, but I got back today, and my whole domain's been up in arms. It's that new policy about the Nords. The Domain of State put out that thing last week, doubling down on it. If the Nords start asking for concessions, let me tell you, we're not sharing our seedlings with _them._ "

She hadn't had much opportunity to focus on broader events in Mzulft of late. The risk of suffering an attack in public was too great for her to continue attending the debate hall meetings. But she did recall the last time she had been there, when Clan Chief Harsinc had presented his shocking proposal to enter talks with the Nords of Falmereth. The Atmorans, as they used to call themselves. They were raging thieves and barbarians, and now the Dwemer were to treat with them? Small wonder that the people of Mzulft were upset.

Not that Dalzren didn't understand the logic of the policy decision. Mzulft needed to grow in strength somehow. And the Dwemer freeholds in Falmereth did almost no trading with anyone, including each other, let alone outsiders. If her colleagues in Mzulft could only get past the obstacle of the non-Dwemer races of Tamriel being warmongering imbeciles, they could gain a unique edge over their rivals.

There wasn't an easy side to take. She hadn't concerned herself with it much since the first evening of Harsinc's presentation.

It was just as well that this conversation was in a public space, though. What she planned to ask about was already terrible. Talk of civil unrest in Mzulft would be even worse if overheard. And in her experience, public spaces were often easier to have clandestine meetings in than private ones. They were simply two more voices in all the ambient noise.

Before she could say anything more, the server arrived with Rideroc's tea.

"Thank you," he nodded, sending the server back off. He cradled the mug in his hands and gave it a very gentle sip. "... Good tea."

"I'm glad for you," Dalzren replied flatly. "I can't say much about this latest turn. It's an issue for the thinkers in Administration to work out."

Rideroc nodded. "Admirable. Staying focused on your own work. But you might not be able to keep it up. Not to turn ominous on you, but we're in wild territory here. No Dwemer have tried negotiating with Nords since Hadras' Twenty-Three."

Dalzren took a long draft of her tea. That harp music from up on the stage didn't fit their conversation at all. It made her want to talk about the finer points of her craft, or maybe the Domain of Home's latest projects of public artwork. Not whatever this was.

She said, "It's really not my place to make judgments about this. Harsinc is a virtuous mer who wants good things for Mzulft. He's our rightful Clan Chief. And as far as I know, there's no law against diplomatic talks. I don't know what everyone's so worried about."

"Besides that we'll look weak in front of all the other freeholds?" Rideroc snorted. "All I know is that the Nords will never honor the agreement. They'll send their bandits to raid our trade caravans, and then when we confront them, they'll say: 'Oh, sorry! Skyrim is such a wild place. You must not be used to it, hiding in your holes in the ground.' And if we stop giving them our trade goods in return, they'll say: 'Now look, you broke the agreement! To war with you!' And then Mzulft will be sacked. So yes, I'm worried."

Dalzren drained the last of her tea while she listened.

"That's a very thought-out argument," she replied, when Rideroc had finally finished. "I'm sure Harsinc is aware of it. He must have some plan. It's a radical departure from our normal policy, without a doubt, but… as far as I know, Mzulft isn't in a truly desperate state now. So he must have some idea of how to handle this with low risk for our city. At least, that's my guess."

"I hope you're right," the younger Dwemer muttered darkly, before taking a deeper sip of his tea.

In truth, there was no real way to verify either of their arguments. They were only speculating on things that might have been. This was exactly why Dalzren had avoided taking any stance on the Clan Chief's new policy. This, and also the fact that she was busy with much more pressing matters.

Sometimes she forgot that the rest of Mzulft wasn't also preoccupied with matters of life and death.

Dalzren remained quiet, and enjoyed the harp music. She hoped the musician was well-paid. Without any conversation to sully the mood, it was very soothing.

But eventually, Rideroc resumed their back-and-forth. He looked up from his tea and said, "All right. I have to ask. Is there something you want to talk to me about? You've been giving me eyes this whole time."

So much for the soothing feeling. Instantly, the older Dwemer felt a deep sinking feeling in her chest. There would be no better time to ask than now. But there was no easy way to broach it. All these years, and she had never tried.

She swallowed. "It's only one question, but I can say without a doubt that you won't like it."

"Try me," Rideroc said coolly.

"Put down your tea first."

He obeyed.

Dalzren took a deep breath in. "I wanted to ask you one question, and it's this: What exactly happened to my husband?"

The words had escaped her lips. There was no taking them back.

Rideroc went pale. He teetered briefly on his chair, before bringing his head forward and resting it in his hands. His voice came quietly, weakly, as though he were reliving the grief all anew. "Oh. I wish you hadn't asked me that."

"I need to know," Dalzren said, trying her best to keep her own voice level. "I must know, tonight."

Rideroc's voice descended to nearly a whisper. "Ten years. Ten years, you've respected that we can't talk about it. Don't do this to me now."

Dalzren still remembered that day. Ten years ago, when Amalest had been only an infant boy, when she had been a younger and brighter mer. When she had opened the front door of her home, and there stood two couriers with a paper letter that would bring her life crashing down. She remembered how far away from herself she had felt. Only Amalest had kept her going.

She asked, "Is it because your Domain forbade you to share, or is it because you can't bear the memory?"

There was a long pause. Rideroc picked his head up slowly, then slumped back into his chair. He looked utterly drained, utterly defeated. There was no need for him to answer out loud. His memory of that day must have been even worse than Dalzren's own.

"Angthist was my best friend. Do you remember that? I remember playing with him as a child. Studying together, building…" He chuckled hopelessly. "Building those silly little tabletop automatons together, making them duel. I looked up to him so much. We grew up together. And then I met you, and… it was so joyous when you and he married. It was the greatest thing I could wish for both of you."

It had been years since Dalzren had heard her husband's name spoken aloud. Angthist. It put a chill through her very bones.

She controlled her breathing. Now was not the time to have another attack. Anytime but now.

Rideroc asked, "Do you truly need to know this?"

"Yes," Dalzren said. "Please."

And so he continued. He was staring off into space, speaking in a deadened, still shaky voice. "I remember it like yesterday. We were both working the Falmer pens. We were new, they had us doing the low work. It was time to fill a soul gem, so we sent down the automatons. They started carrying one of the Falmer up the ramp. Angthist was holding the soul gem. And then… I don't know what happened. Something went wrong. The Falmer grabbed him. But the automatons punched the thing's skull a split second after. It all happened in a second. I barely realized what had happened. But Angthist… he…

"I don't know why. I'm sorry. I still don't know why. He looked at me, and he said something, but I didn't understand it, and… and I asked him what it was. And then he…" Rideroc sat up and rubbed his hands over his eyes. He was shedding tears, however quietly. They were still flowing. "He… he threw the gates open again, and ran straight down the ramp. Screaming at the top of his lungs. The Falmer swarmed over him. They pinned him down, started tearing at him…"

The Dwemer lowered his head and closed his eyes. "And that was how he died. They told me never to repeat it to anyone. If it got out, it'd… it'd cause everyone to be afraid of the Falmer. And that would ruin our work. So his death was called a fit of madness. I could be put behind bars if anyone learned I told you this. Even today, after all this time."

It all made sense now. It all made sense in the exact way Dalzren had hoped it wouldn't. She had her answer now, there was no hiding from it—but axioms be damned, she wanted to.

"Marriage," she said quietly. "The bonding of two souls under Aetherius."

Rideroc, through his grief, squinted at the older Dwemer. "What?"

At this moment, there were only two feelings. Love and horror. Dalzren was struck by them both.

How could she have come under the affliction of Soul Fray, despite having never had uncontrolled contact with a soul gem? The next option was for it to be transmitted to her. She wouldn't have ruled it out. Just as diseases spread from one person's body to another, she had speculated that this ailment might spread across souls. Such as her late husband's. It had been a desperate guess, based on her crude understanding of magic, but it had been completely right.

Ten years ago, Angthist had been dragged into an active soul trapping. He had still lived, and the soul gem had not fit him, being white against his black. But he must have felt what it had done to him. And he must have thrown himself to his death, hoping that in doing so, he would free his soul from Mundus before the Soul Fray could spread.

Dalzren had never known how her husband had died. Now she did. Her heart overflowed with sorrowful love for that wondrous mer. He had given his life to try to save hers.

But it had failed. And now that Dalzren knew the Soul Fray could be transmitted, there was only one conclusion. Any time now, any year, any month, Amalest would be next. His soul was linked to theirs also. Her one and only child, her baby boy—he was going to die too? He was going to see his body tearing apart, feel his soul rend itself away from him, just as Dalzren did now?

She fought back the urge to vomit. It was incredibly difficult. There were no words to describe how great this horror was. She was going to die, and her son was going to die also.

Across the table, Rideroc asked, "What's wrong, Dalzren?"

"I'm sorry," she said, standing up suddenly. "I'm sorry for… bothering you about this. I meant no harm. Thank you."

Dalzren managed to walk out of the room with her composure intact. She managed to get out into the corridor outside, past the doorkeepers, past anyone who could see her. Then she found an alcove behind a pillar, collapsed against it, and let her legs give.

Tears flowed freely down her face. She made no effort to stop them. All these years, she hadn't known. All her Dwemer logic failed her. All her command of design failed her. She was going to have to come home tonight, and find some way to look Amalest in the eye.

What would she tell him? That his father had died trying to protect him, but soon they would both be dead anyway? That there was nothing to be done for either of them?

There was only one possible hope. Only one way she could get out of this. And she'd been working on it for weeks. A machine that, by some method, for whatever reason, was being designed to do the impossible.

Minutes passed, and Dalzren slowed her breathing. Collected herself. Wiped her face dry, then pushed herself back to her feet. It would be a long walk back to her home from here. She had plenty of time to think.

First, she and Chief Designer Hizeft were going to need to talk.


	22. The High King's Capital

Morndas, 4:45 PM, 6th of Frostfall, 1E 173  
Winterhold

Had there ever been such a testament to the will of men? Had Tamriel ever known a city of this splendor and might?

Those were Yngva's first thoughts as she laid eyes on Winterhold for the first time. A massive, sprawling city of ornate black stone, with high outer walls and fearsome gatehouses before the outlying roads. She could see the immaculate grid of rooftops laid out below, spaced apart by the interwoven spiderweb of streets. It was a masterpiece of planned city-building. Fitting, for a place that one king had raised as Skyrim's capital.

Standing tall above the city's many rooftops were three shapes: To the left, the towers of the Arcane College, adorned with giant silver-on-black banners displaying its sigil, the five-pointed eye. In the middle, the Temple of Shor, a massive, steeply-roofed structure that put Snowhawk's counterpart to shame. And on the right, far behind the rest of the city, its citadel stood on a high promontory over the icy seas below. The Star Castle, home of the High King of Skyrim.

It was a fiercely cold day, as befitting only the winters of northern Skyrim. A thin layer of snow dusted the ground, and even more blew through the air, getting into every crevice of Yngva's clothing. She'd dressed warmly, but it was never enough. It hadn't been enough ever since they'd entered the Pale. That had been over a week ago.

Now she stood on the crest of a mountainside road, looking down upon the city of Winterhold in the soft evening light. Beside her, Divayth stood with his arms wrapped tightly around himself. He was shivering, as he had been for most of the day. With his hooded cloak and scarf on, he was unrecognizable as an elf. That was for the best, considering where they were going next.

"I don't know how you stand it," Divayth said loudly, struggling to be heard over the wind. "How do any of you Nords stand this?"

Yngva resumed walking, giving their pack horse's lead a tug. "I don't know! It's in our blood."

At this point, they'd finally merged onto a proper road. Sometimes other travelers passed by them. Traders, mainly, coming into Winterhold on wagons with sacks of grain and bolts of cloth. The last provisions from harvests elsewhere in the kingdom, stockpiling the city's reserves before the worst of the winter came.

Outside the city, there was a sprawling patchwork of fenced-off rectangles, but the land within them was covered with snow like everything else. Fields for the summer, Yngva supposed. Even this far north, the ground wasn't frozen all year. And Winterhold was the largest city in Skyrim. It needed all the food it could get.

As they walked, Divayth continued complaining. "This is a terrible place to build a city. Far away from any sane trade route, right up here in the cold, covered in ice all year long—why did you idiots make this your capital? Why?"

"Maybe to keep non-Nords out," Yngva said.

Divayth threw his arms down and stamped his feet on the ground, yelling at the top of his lungs. "COME ON! That's not funny! I'm dying here!"

Yngva ran a hand over her face. She was wearing a scarf too, along with a fur cloak over her armor. It was only sensible. "You're fine," she said, Keep your fingers warm. We'll be there before you know it."

"No we won't." Divayth pointed down the road. At least he was back to speaking at a normal volume. "Look at it, the city's still miles away from here. If I don't do something to warm up, how am I going to—"

They were there before he knew it. The gates of Winterhold were manned by guards, but wide open. The two of them simply walked through, under the massive stone arch with its portcullis and its murder holes, just like any other travelers. Yngva stopped at a stable and paid the local hands a few coppers to look after her horse, and then they went straight for the Arcane College.

Thus, Yngva and Divayth were inside the city of Winterhold. They didn't talk. Very few people were out on the streets—guards on patrol, tired workers heading for warm beds, and little else. No doubt, in weather like this, everyone wanted to minimize their trips outdoors. Despite being a grand capital, this evening it was a quiet one.

And so, in the quiet of the northern evening, after covering four holds of Skyrim, the Nord and the Chimer wound their way through a vast labyrinth made of stone brick buildings. The road beneath them was made of geometric cobblestones, halfway buried in packed snow. Soft orange light shone from candles and torches behind glass windows. Shapes moved across them at times. Faces looked out at them.

Yngva kept walking. The towers of the Arcane College stood tall above the rooftops, even here, even within the city. There would be no getting lost.

The college building turned out to be in front of an open square, which made it easy to find—and which allowed Yngva to properly view it again before coming close. Its first and foremost structure was a hollow rectangular tower of stone arches and circles, with the building's front gates by the bottom, and great tall-windowed walls curving back from behind it. Flanking those curved walls on both sides were two large round tower-houses, both of which stood tall above the other buildings nearby. But the greatest structure of all was another round tower on the structure's rear, standing twice as high as any of the others, with brilliant cyan windows shining against the darkening sky. One near the very top was perfectly circular, bearing the five-pointed eye in black iron against the glass.

The entrance was a massive double-door gate of iron bars, shaped with the likeness of the eye sigil in the center. It was near the base of the tower, but it stood at the top of a short staircase, essentially a porch, with two city guards standing watch outside. Fire burned in stone braziers nearby them, probably for warmth more than light.

And all of it was on the other side of an open square. It was nearly empty right now, and besides a few distinct shopfronts in the surrounding buildings, there was only a single circular-walled fountain in the center of the square to look at. But that was more than enough, because the fountain appeared to be both one of water and of fire. Bright blue liquid rippled outward from the pool's center, shining in metallic hues against the sky above. And above it, a pillar of faint bluish magical energy shone into the air, twisting and licking upward in ways that belonged only to gigantic flames.

Yngva stopped in place to take it all in.

"Impressive," she murmured.

"It is that," Divayth said quietly, no doubt displeased by his own admission.

But there was nothing else to say. And in all truth, Divayth had been suffering from the cold long enough. They pressed on towards the stairs, cutting across the middle of the square, heading right past the fountain. Yngva didn't touch it, despite feeling a temptation to try. She was busy steeling herself for a potential confrontation with the guards.

After all, she had no idea how often the Arcane College received visitors, but if it needed two men standing watch, that was something of a hint.

The guards were wearing the same standard uniform as any throughout Skyrim. Scaled armor over padded tunics, with tabards on top displaying their city's colors. Steel helmets with full-face visors, rendering them unrecognizable as individuals. Shields bearing the three-horned crown of Winterhold, and swords on their belts. If they had any reaction to the two cloaked travelers approaching, they didn't show it.

Out of courtesy, Yngva stopped when she got within speaking distance of the guards. She said, "Good evening. May we enter the College?"

The guard on the left—a woman who was quite a bit larger in build than Yngva was—answered in a terse tone. "Official visiting hours end at sundown. Come back tomorrow if you wish to make an appointment."

Yngva didn't like the sound of that. Could she and Divayth find a room at some inn someplace? Possibly. But the longer they spent in Winterhold, the longer something might go wrong.

"It's urgent business," she said. "On behalf of the Jarl of Snowhawk."

The guard asked, "Whom do you want to see?"

"I need to access the Arcanaeum. We've been on the road for weeks, please just let us in."

The other guard, on the right—a male, about as big as the female guard—said, "If the Jarl of Snowhawk sent you, we should have received word of your impending arrival."

Had she not? That seemed like a dreadful oversight. Yngva had no idea what kind of proper channels they'd have to go through now. She glanced behind herself, observing the near-empty square. There must've been an inn not far away.

But before she could complete her thought, Divayth stepped forward and started talking.

"I don't know why the Arcane College has common street guards standing watch, but you do not want to interfere with us. The Jarl didn't send word because this is supposed to be a secret mission. It could go as far up as the High King, and you're telling us about visiting hours? Escort us to the Arcanaeum if you're that worried about it, but don't ask questions, or it'll be you they throw in a cell."

Yngva stared. It was a good thing that Divayth was so heavily dressed, or they might have realized he was an elf.

Or perhaps they were about to realize that anyway. His Nordic accent wasn't perfect.

The left guard said, "At least prove to us you're working for the Jarl of Snowhawk. What you're asking for is very irregular."

Now, that was something Yngva could deal with. She unclasped her cloak and held it open for the guards to see. Beneath was her own tabard, fastened over her light armor. It bore her mother's personal sigil, with the three-armed spiral in flames.

She closed her cloak again quickly. The air was bitingly cold.

The right guard commented, "That's not the proper sigil. Are you a Thane?"

"The daughter of one, actually," Yngva replied, all too aware that she was referring to a dead woman now. "Thane Sirese. We walked all the way here from Snowhawk. Please let us in."

The two guards gave each other a glance, then exchanged a shrug. The left guard said, "Very well. I will show you to the Arcanaeum. Don't even think about trying anything funny. The head librarian is even less forgiving than the High King."

With that, she turned and began leading Yngva and Divayth up the staircase. The great iron doors of the five-pointed eye awaited them.

That conversation had gone more easily than the Nord girl had feared it might. And, despite everything else it had done, she had Divayth's fierce attitude to thank for their success. That would make for an interesting reflection later.

Yngva had been expecting the central space of the Arcane College to be a great hall, in the fashion of a keep, but it wasn't. It was a fully enclosed circular yard, ringed with a high-pillared cloister and bisected by a path from front to back. There was another fire-and-water fountain in the yard's center, in front of a tall stone statue that could only be of the legendary Shalidor. Behind that, at the end of the path, was another great pair of doors, these ones made of solid wood. That was where they were headed.

None of them spoke. That was likely for the best.

The guard unlatched and pushed open the doors. This time, the space beyond was indoors. It was one giant room, with a rectangular antechamber before a great circular floor. The ceiling was shockingly high. It felt like a miniature version of the courtyard, with another water-fire pool in the middle, and columns all around the perimeter. A dozen or so men and women in mage robes were all seated along the rear wall, listening to a hooded woman standing before them and talking.

"... in every case that we've observed, black soul gems are only attainable through the use of necromantic magic on existing white soul gems, but there has never been any indication of an underlying arcane law. The one point of note, of course, is that black soul gems are always of the same grade as a white grand soul gem, which may have something to do with their popularity. That being said, don't get any ideas, because their use is still illegal by the High King's laws. If you do find a black soul gem in your travels, your best…"

And that was Yngva's first sight of the students of the College of Winterhold.

In here, the air was pleasantly cool—that must have been its temperature, in reality. But to Yngva, it felt like standing right by a blazing hearth. This was the first time she'd been truly safe from the frozen outdoors in over a week. She relished it.

Beside her, Divayth made a low, pleasant groan, stretching his arms out wide and flexing his gloved fingers. Based on the fact that he wasn't a Nord—or on the complaining he'd been doing for the past few days—he must have felt the same thing twofold.

They didn't get to hear any more of the woman's lecture, however, because the guard ushered them straight into a doorway on the left, and up a dark, quiet stairwell to a much higher door. Every step was making Yngva's legs burn. But they were so close. She couldn't possibly slow down now.

The guard opened the door and showed the two of them through. On the other side of this one was a dimmer, quieter room of the same profile as the one below. A library. All of its outer walls were ringed with bookshelves, with the columns demarcating the inner space bearing two rows of additional shelving on the left and right. In between them was a recessed circle in the floor, a couple concentric steps down, with tables and chairs and candles for reading. At the far side of the room stood a large, imposing wooden desk.

A few students in robes were sitting in the recessed space, reading intently. Another was browsing the shelves on the far left. Sitting at the far back, behind the desk, was an old Nord with a great grizzled white beard.

"This is the Arcanaeum," the guard whispered over her shoulder, still leading them through. "Keep your voices down. People are studying in here."

Yngva nodded silently. It seemed much like an ordinary library, except that everyone in it appeared to be a mage.

They walked a careful path around the right wall of the room, avoiding coming too close to the students who were busy in the recessed space. On the far end, the old man with the beard was hunched intently over his desk, writing on a piece of paper with a quill pen.

The guard walked right up to him and said in a hushed voice, "Excuse me, Lorun? These travelers wanted to access the Arcanaeum. Urgent business, they said, from the Jarl of Snowhawk."

"Very well," the old man murmured, placing down his quill and turning to face them in his seat. "Thank you, return to your post. Good evening, travelers. Welcome to the Arcane College of Winterhold." He didn't even pause in between changing whom he was addressing. "Surely, your journey has been long, but if you wish to speak to me immediately, I will listen. Thank you, now."

The guard paused for a moment, then turned back and hurried out of the Arcanaeum so abruptly, it was as though she'd suddenly realized that she didn't even work there.

And just like that, Yngva and Divayth were in the Arcane College with the head librarian. This was what all their grueling travels had been for.

They glanced at each other, then both pulled down their scarves and hoods. Divayth said, "I wouldn't mind sitting down, personally."

The old Nord, Lorun, looked upon Divayth for a split second longer than necessary. No visible reaction crossed his face, though he surely must have felt something. A Chimer had been brought into his midst. He glanced past the duo, at the central area beyond, and shrugged. "Pull up a chair, if you must. But I am here at your service. My name is Lorun, I'm the head librarian of the Arcane College. What brings you to the Arcanaeum?"

Lorun's way of speaking made it sound less like he was using real conversational language, and more like he was stringing together a seamless cascade of well-rehearsed polite phrases. He must have dealt with random visiting strangers on a daily basis.

"My name is Yngva, and this is my companion and colleague, Divayth," she replied, gesturing to the Chimer as she spoke. "We have a book that we need your help identifying. There's an icon on the cover, but no listed author. Worse, the first page is missing. And I doubt there are any other copies of this one book in existence, so… this was our last resort. It's imperative we resolve this as quickly and quietly as possible."

Divayth didn't move from where he stood. He simply looked down at his feet and kept silent. Alleviating the pain in his legs and feet must not have been worth the indignity of moving chairs around in front of everyone.

Lorun nodded. "Very well. Do you have the book on your person?"

Truth be told, Yngva's own body felt like it had been pushed direly far. She had simply not given herself any more mind than she needed to prevent injury on the road. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps Divayth had stayed by her side—complaining or not—because demanding the Nord girl change her path for him would have been too shameful.

"Yes," she said, before unslinging her pack and pulling out the book. The little leatherbound codex with the black icon on the cover, brought here all the way from Snowhawk. Only the gods knew where it had been before that—the gods, and possibly someone in the Arcane College.

Lorun reached up and received the book gently in both hands. He examined the cover for a moment—his brow twitched together in a fleeting frown, another glimpse of well-restrained emotion—before opening to the first intact page. He then began to scan through the entire rest of the book, one page after another, far too quickly to be really reading anything.

Yngva waited patiently. There was little else to do. Eventually, she unclasped her cloak and held it under one arm, because it was much warmer in here than outside, and she was starting to overheat.

Eventually, the old Nord looked back up and said, "This looks like it was written as a guide to help adventurers locate the ruin in question. The symbol on the front is much more perplexing. I think it may be familiar, but I'll have to consult with a contact of mine in the Star Castle. If this is truly urgent business, I'll leave for that now. Can I trust you to wait in the Arcanaeum while I go?"

Yngva exchanged another glance with Divayth. "I don't see why not," she said.

"Very well." Lorun used a blotter to dry the ink on his piece of paper, then folded it into an envelope and put on a wax seal. The wax was a dark gray color, nearly black, but Yngva could still see the five-pointed eye on the seal's impression. "In that case, I'll bring this with me and save a trip later. Feel free to peruse the shelves while you wait, but I'd request that you not remove any books from the Arcanaeum. Do I have your word that you won't?"

"Yes, and I won't damage them or use them to summon unbound atronachs or anything else like that," Yngva said.

"She said it better than I was going to," Divayth muttered.

The old Nord stood up and addressed them both once more. "In that case, Yngva and Divayth, well-met." He nodded to each of them as he spoke their names. "I'll be back before too long. And in the meantime—enjoy my favorite part of the Arcane College."

And with that, he strode off for the door to downstairs, leaving the two halfway-thawed travelers standing there by his desk.

Yngva waited until the man had left the room before turning to Divayth once again. "So," she said dryly. "Want to enjoy some stolen Nord knowledge?"

"I'm getting a chair," Divayth said without looking at her. He went straight down into the recessed area, pulled off his cloak, dumped it on the floor by a chair at an unoccupied table, and sat himself down with a heavy thud. The robed students doing their reading gave him a couple glances, but otherwise didn't react.

Yngva followed more slowly, sitting down in the chair opposite the table from Divayth. The moment her weight came off her feet, that wondrous feeling of aching relief washed through her whole legs. She'd been walking on them all day. Now she didn't want to move. Healing spells were all well and good, but nothing truly replaced good and proper rest.

"We made it," she murmured to Divayth, smiling gently out of the corner of her eye.

"We'll have to go back the same way," the Chimer replied at the same volume.

"But now we know that we can."

A minute went by in silence. It was a nice minute. Yngva simply took in the warmth of the room. She would have been tempted to pull off her boots, perhaps replace her footwraps with a fresh pair from the pack, but she suspected her toes were still too cold. They would end up red and swollen and throbbing from the sudden return to warmth. At least they weren't frostbitten. She could still feel them in there.

As long as she was here, she supposed it would be wise to try perusing some of the books. But truthfully, that didn't matter nearly as much as getting some rest in right then. The books could wait until her body felt less like a sack of rocks.

Eventually, Divayth reached up and pulled a random book off the stone shelf above them. He gave the title a glance, then shrugged and began reading.

Yngva closed her eyes for a moment. Then, realizing that that would probably put her to sleep in a minute, she opened them again and pulled down a book of her own. Maybe this would be an exciting find, or maybe it would be so boring that it would put her to sleep anyway—but at least in the latter case, it would do the job more slowly than simply resting.

The book she pulled down was a thick, heavy, old-looking thing, with deep dark leather binding and engraved copper corner protectors. The front cover bore a likeness of the Daedric letter Oht, also known as the symbol of an Oblivion gate, also known as the symbol of the school of Conjuration magic. Yngva had never done very much with it.

So she opened the book and began reading.

The first thing that she observed was the title page. There it was: The Last Stand of Yngmar, by Teolas III. Every book she had ever read contained a page like this, or something comparable. If the title page of her mystery book with the black icon had been removed, then whoever removed it had wanted to strip the book of its title and author. But why?

That was a question for another time. She continued reading. The book was written from the perspective of an Ayleid noble who had been witness to the execution of a minor Atmoran warlord whose raids had ventured too far south. In a sarcastic gesture to satisfy Yngmar's apparent bloodlust, his Ayleid captors placed him in a caged arena, then sentenced him to death by combat—for which the conjured an unending horde of unbound Dremora to slay him, half a dozen at a time.

Yngmar, armed only with a plain steel sword, lasted a stunning eight hours in intermittent combat, bringing down the Dremora faster than the Ayleid mages could conjure replacements. Eventually, the mages grew weary of the constant spellcasting, and retired for the night, leaving Yngmar alone in the arena. When they resumed the next day, they began by snatching the Atmoran's sword away from him, all but ensuring his swift demise. But when the Ayleid mages resumed conjuring their bound Dremora, the Dremora simply refused to fight. Having witnessed their intended victim fighting at full strength, they didn't care to slay him in a moment of forced weakness.

Ultimately, the Ayleid mages gave up, allowed their Dremora to return to Oblivion, and then slew Yngmar with an unceremonious hail of destruction spells. But from that day forward, the Daedra knew of the wild, boundless ferocity of the Atmorans. They saw these mortals as worthy adversaries—or perhaps, in some cases, as worthy pawns. The Ayleids, meanwhile, were motivated to find a way to conjure Dremora in a more controllable manner.

Yngva was just getting to the author's personal reflections on the experience when the door opened.

One of the doors at the front of the room opened. Lorun, the bushy-bearded librarian, stepped back inside and gave the two travelers a glance. Then he began to walk inside, and more people followed in behind him. Guards. Two, then four, then six, marching in double file behind the robed Nord.

Yngva stood up slowly—with some difficulty, given how tired her legs were. If they were being escorted to the Star Castle themselves now, she was going to have to get her cloak back on.

Divayth stood as well. He scowled and asked loudly, "What is this?"

As Lorun led the guards closer, he glanced over his shoulder and said, "That's them."

This didn't seem right. Yngva wasn't sure what to make of it anymore.

The guards parted around Lorun and came ahead to meet Yngva and Divayth head-on. They weren't the ones from by the front doors. They wore the tabards of Winterhold, and they carried themselves like proper guards would, but they were much more heavily armed and armored. Yngva had never even seen a hold guard with that much steel plate on their body.

She said, "My colleague asked a good question. What is this?"

One of the guards stepped forward. A big man, easily a head taller than Yngva. He drew a massive longsword from his back, and all of the other guards behind him followed suit.

Then he spoke.

"By the order of the High King, we're placing you under arrest."


	23. Of Men

Tirdas, 7th of Frostfall, 1E 173

Star Castle Dungeon

They wouldn't let her sleep. That was the worst part.

The cell was dark and cold and cramped. The only light came from torches on the dungeon walls outside—there were no windows anywhere. There was a low stone shelf on the back wall that served as a bed, but without any bedding or blankets. They'd let her keep her fur cloak, so she wasn't freezing to death, but no matter how she moved, some part of her was always exposed to the chill.

And every so often, a jailer would come along—this big, burly Nord with a shaven head and a short beard, wearing Winterhold colors—walking through the corridor, dragging a wooden cudgel along the iron bars of the dungeon. Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack. On and on it went, almost painfully loud when it reached her own cell bars, no matter how much she tried to hide from it. Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack.

It was insanity. Its only purpose was to keep her from sleeping. The longer this went on, the worse it was going to be.

The first hour or so, Yngva had spent more or less simply in denial. The whole thing was a smokescreen, she reasoned. A way for Divayth and herself to get into the Star Castle without raising any questions. Skyrim's enemies must have had spies in the Arcane College, so this was their only safe way to learn more about their questions. Of course no one would randomly arrest the daughter of a Thane. She hadn't even done anything.

And then the guards had brought her and Divayth in manacles all the way up to the Star Castle, only to veer straight into the dungeons. They'd forced her at swordpoint to remove all her gear, down to the smallclothes. They'd ignored all of her questions, all of her protests, responding only with threats to hurt her and Divayth. Then they'd fixed a magic-sapping bracer to her forearm, pushed her into this cell, and locked the door. She hadn't seen Divayth since they'd first walked in. They were probably nowhere near each other now.

At that point, the denial had given way to sheer, blind terror. But that had gotten her nowhere. The guards still dragged her along all the same, and being afraid didn't make her strong enough to force her way out through the cell door's bars.

There had been nothing to do but wait. Just wait, here in the dark, for something to happen. They'd put her in prison. It wasn't a trick, it wasn't a joke, it was completely real. Whatever the librarian of the Arcane College had said to the guards, it'd been enough for them to put her in here. It didn't take her long to figure out what it had been.

It had been the book, of course. Not the fact that Yngva had brought a Chimer into the Arcane College—certainly not the fact that she had coerced the guards into letting her in at an odd hour. Whatever that book was, whoever had wrote it, she wasn't supposed to have it on her person. And in fact, no matter what her story was, simply coming in carrying that book implicated her in some kind of crime.

And that led to where Yngva was now. In a frozen jail cell, deep beneath the earth, with only flickering torchlight to see by. The deaths of her parents, her meeting with the Jarl, her struggles with the two elves, the long arduous trek to Winterhold, it had all led to her going straight to prison. There was no telling how long she would be here. No one had been willing to tell her that either.

There was also no telling how long she had been here so far. Time blurred together so easily here, with no sunlight or timepiece or even daily routine to go by. But going by how hungry she was, the entire night had passed. And going by how painfully sleepy she was, being forced awake like this was eventually going to turn into a slow, mind-warping kind of torture.

Yngva sat up slowly on her shelf, fur cloak tight around her shoulders. She couldn't sleep, couldn't think, couldn't act. The jailer had come by a few minutes ago, jolting her out of what had been starting to be a brave attempt at a nap. She wanted to scream, to just grab the bars and thrash against them with all her strength, but she lacked the energy even for that.

Footsteps were approaching. Not the jailer's. Multiple footsteps.

Three guards appeared in front of the door. Three of the visored guards in heavy armor, like the ones who had arrested her. One rattled through some keys and unlocked the cell door. The other two stepped inside and walked right up to Yngva.

"Hands behind your back," the guard on the left said, pulling forth a pair of manacles.

Yngva barely reacted. She simply pushed herself upright enough to obey the command. The guard reached back and fastened the cold, heavy steel restraints to her wrists. And then they were off, down the corridor, out of the dungeon. Off to somewhere else.

They took her through winding stairways and corridors, past doors and windows, seemingly across the entire castle. She could barely walk, but they were half-carrying her. The air around her got warmer. Sunlight was streaming in through the windows outside. They'd kept her up until the morning, or maybe the afternoon. Morning, she thought. Her vision was darkening at the edges. She thought she might collapse at any second, but somehow, she didn't. Not yet.

Eventually, they brought her to another, shorter corridor, with a single prison cell on the left side, like from the dungeon. It was dimly lit in here, but they must have been high aboveground.

When they put her in the cell, she realized how true that was. It had a single vertical slit window on the back wall, only a couple inches wide, lined with glass too far in for her to reach. Beyond it was a view consisting of nothing but air and sea.

She was hundreds of feet over the water. This place must have been even harder to escape than the dungeons below.

The guards locked the cell door behind her and left. Someone walked in past them as they did. Yngva turned around just in time to see the door closing behind the person. Then she focused on the person himself.

It was one man. A stout, weathered-looking man, with long graying hair and a well-kept beard. He was wearing a gray fur cloak with the hood down, over an unmarked mail hauberk and leggings. If he was armed, his weapons couldn't be seen beneath the cloak, but he looked like he probably was.

"Hello, Yngva," he said.

Yngva wasn't sure if this man was real or just some sort of hallucination. At this point, she wouldn't put it past herself to think up a random visitor. Her head hurt so badly. She couldn't think. She sat down on the stone shelf at the back of the cell.

Then she asked, "Who in Oblivion are you?"

"Only a person who's in charge of seeing justice for you. That's all you need to worry about." The man spoke with a low, even voice, like he was used to doing this. He might've been some kind of special mercenary who worked for the guards. "I'd like to ask you a few questions, and if you answer truthfully, we'll consider letting you walk free."

Truth be told, Yngva didn't even want to have this conversation. The man didn't seem trustworthy. Although he also sort of did. It was strange. She still couldn't think. "I'm too sleepy to lie right now," she said.

The man snorted. "Right, then. Let's begin. How did you acquire the book you presented in the Arcanaeum?"

"The Jarl of Snowhawk gave it to me," Yngva replied. She felt like she was going to vomit, even though she hadn't eaten anything. She was that sleepy. "The … I'm the daughter of Thane Sirese. She was murdered while exploring the Gates of Dusk. The Jarl gave me that book because it was my… it was the only way I could learn what happened. I needed to find who did it. To have revenge."

"Is that so?" The man leaned forwards, peering inquisitively at her. "And how did the book end up in the Jarl's possession to begin with?"

"She… did not say," Yngva admitted. "It was given to her. I swear, whatever makes that book so special, it's beyond me. I came here to Winterhold to try to find out."

"A fair account. Or a well-crafted one. That book belonged to a secret order in the High King's employ. Most do not even know of its name. To carry it here is to prove yourself complicit in treason. And because you went to the Arcane College, word will surely spread of this incident. Someone will be to blame."

A secret order. Perhaps that made some sneaking sense. Or more likely, it didn't, and Yngva still couldn't think. She didn't even know who this man was, but he must have been powerful, to be visiting her like this. Or he might have just bribed the jailer. There was no way of knowing.

But the word 'treason' had just been spoken. This was even more dangerous than she'd thought. And yet it didn't make sense. The fear wasn't yet setting in.

She heard herself say, "Blame the order, then. If they couldn't protect a damned book, they should be the ones embarrassed by all this."

"Perhaps so. Perhaps they're not what they used to be." The man smiled a twinkling smile, briefly. "But no, I'd wager they've done well. They were outwitted by a skilled, resourceful and purposeful agent, and if it was you… your head would do well on a spike, some would say. Most don't know that the secret order exists, but they do know the High King has secrets, and that you brought one in like a naked trophy."

"What's so special about a book about an old ruin?"

The man shrugged. "You tell me. Your mother went exploring in it. And someone killed her, more likely than not for whatever she found there."

Yngva tried to make words. She could barely even make thoughts right then. They all came tumbling out in messy frustration.

"So… if you… there's plenty of reason for me to care about this stupid book, right? None of it has to do with your secret order. You should be helping me, not putting me in prison! I'm on your side here!"

"Helping you take advantage of secret knowledge, yes. Your mother never should have read that book, and neither should the Jarl. You're participating in something that could wreak untold havoc on the kingdom, in ways you haven't even begun to understand. Right now, you should be concerned about whose fault it is that you came into Winterhold with that book."

The Nord girl had no idea what this man was telling her. No idea what point he was trying to make. This was a problem for people in the court of Winterhold, or it was a problem for the secrecy of some order, or it was a problem for Skyrim as a whole. Or some combination of these things.

She asked, "Whose fault could it be, then?"

The man placed his hands on his hips. He looked like he had an answer ready.

"An elf came here with you. A Chimer, from the eastern lands. He couldn't have to do with your mother's death, or he would already have what he wanted. But you may have been deceived. Your elf companion may have had to do with that book ending up in the wrong hands. He may now be plotting to see it through. If so, you would be a victim, not a criminal. An innocent Nord girl, caught up in the machinations of elven saboteurs. You would walk out of here with your head still on your shoulders."

Yngva had to take a moment to understand what the man was saying. She could hardly believe it.

"Divayth," she said. "You're talking about Divayth. How could he be the one who stole your book? He'd never…"

He'd never do that, Yngva thought. But even as she thought it, she knew that the idea would never hold up. She couldn't vouch for Divayth's character, not when she was being told the elf had deceived her. It would be only more proof of how thorough the deceit had been.

Yet it was true. The Chimer had been unpleasant and standoffish from the day they'd met. He'd openly regarded Nords as an enemy of his people, and he'd treated Yngva like a spoiled idiot at the best of times. But he didn't have the malice to do what this man was suggesting. He was no agent.

They were going to take Divayth's head if she allowed them. They were going to take it in place of her own.

The man was waiting expectantly for her to finish her thought. So she did her best.

"Divayth is… is only a boy. He has nothing to do with all this. He came to Snowhawk accompanying a Dwemer trader, just for the sake of exploring Skyrim. And he followed me because the Dwemer trader left early. He blundered into all this, he's innocent as can be. You can't pin all of this on him."

"If you're worried about someone exacting vengeance on you for betraying his motives, you need not. You're in grave risk either way."

"Why?" Yngva held her arms out. She felt so sick. "Why are you asking me this? Why would Divayth even want to steal it? He got in trouble just like I did!"

The man's gaze only hardened. "Because elves are the enemy. And they always have been. I have no doubt in my mind that the elves are responsible for this book being stolen. No one knew it happened in the first place, so no one sought out justice for it. But now you've come to Winterhold with treasonous secrets, and people will seek out justice for this. Perhaps the elves involved now aren't the ones who stole the book, but they're likely in league with the same. Your companion will need to be interrogated. We need to know his contacts. You have no reason to go down with him."

This was madness. Yngva felt like she was drifting away from her own thoughts, from reality itself. Her words came out whether she wanted them to or not. Whether they were wise to say or not.

"Why are you concerned about him? He's nothing to you! You're asking all the wrong questions. Someone gave that book to the Jarl of Snowhawk, and you have to find out who did it! That's the real aggressor, not some … random elf who came in afterward to follow me around! That's all Divayth is."

The bearded man raised a cautioning hand. "Rest assured, we'll get to that. But in the meantime, you're here in Winterhold, and you're possibly a traitor to the High King. You can't walk in here with a secret book and expect us to write it off as a silly mistake. Now, if you insist on calling your elven companion a clueless pawn in all this, then we'll have to treat you both as being such."

"Do we at least get a trial? Don't the High King's laws grant us that much?"

"This situation is too sensitive for an ordinary judge," he said, brushing off the idea like it was nothing. "You'll be tried by a special court, and much more likely than not, found guilty and executed. This conversation if your one and only chance to set things right."

The idea was slowly sinking into Yngva's mind that she was being threatened with her life. She'd spent the past entire night being terrified and hopeless, and now someone wanted to kill her to make a point. And the only way out was to betray Divayth, and probably leave him to be tortured to death.

This would have been a good time for her to be less sleepy. She had no idea what to think. So she was going to just talk, and hope that Shor or someone else guided her tongue.

"I'm not going to turn on my friend," she said. "I'd be a piss-poor Nord if I abandoned him to save my own hide. I'd be a coward. I'd never forgive myself. But you know what? I don't even—I'm not even afraid of you. You're not going to kill me. And you're not going to imprison me. You need me."

She couldn't stop now. She had the man's attention. She kept talking, and slowly pushed herself to her feet as she did.

"Your special secret order lost its book. It's not in control of this situation. Not only did it lose its book, it never went and recovered the book afterwards. Somehow, they left it in the hands of the Jarl of Snowhawk, even after a Thane got killed following its directions. So we've got two possibilities. One: Your order wanted me to get my hands on the book. Two: Your order is so badly out of touch that they let me get the book by accident, even after… after… at least three separate people had read it.

"Now I'm out investigating this, and I have all the reason in the world to keep going. You shouldn't be imprisoning me. You should be helping me. It's not just that we're on the same side. I haven't been compromised like your secret order has. I don't have any whispered words spreading to unfriendly ears. You give me an objective, and I won't have to go around hunting in the Arcanaeum for answers anymore. I'll just do it. That's more than your order can do."

The man paused. "Someone still has to be held to blame for what the Arcane College found."

Yngva felt the rage swell in her chest. She didn't even want to hold back anymore. "Oh, by Shor, listen to yourself. You want to kill someone to hold up appearances! Why is killing people your first solution here? Say it was a mistake. Say it was all a big misunderstanding. You can't tell me you have to slake the Nord people's thirst for elven blood every time someone steps on a twig in the capital. You—you, now? You sound like the kind of villain the elves like to tell each other stories about. The wicked Nords, off to pillage and burn the innocent little elven villagers, and then they'll pat themselves on the back for doing the right thing. I've had enough of that stupidity. I'm done with it. And that's the stand I'm taking today."

She pointed a stabbing finger at the man's chest. "Now, what matters more to you? Protecting Skyrim, or murdering the innocent?"

The man reacted like he'd been physically struck. He stepped back, a stunned grimace on his face, then stood there motionless for some long seconds. Eventually, he turned aside and looked down at the floor.

This was strange.

"I had a vision for Skyrim," he said quietly. "A great land with a prosperous people, the likes of which Tamriel had never known. I used to think like you did. I remember those days. Young. Carefree. Now I go to bed at night fearing for everyone who's sworn themselves to me. I sit in a court full of greed and betrayal, despite all my efforts. I thought we would be united by the vision I dreamed of. Instead, we're united only by hatred for outsiders to our kingdom. And here I stand, humbled at the words of a Thane's whelp."

With that, he turned on his heel and walked towards the door to outside. He pulled it open a few inches, murmured a few words to someone out there, and then closed it again.

When he returned his attention to Yngva, he was moving at a pace burdened by some great emotion. He stopped and looked at her for a pregnant moment. There was only sorrow on his face. "I… apologize for your imprisonment. I've just ordered the guards to have Divayth released. Once you've left the dungeon, they will return your things to you. And if you're going to seek out revenge for your mother's death, ask me anything you want now. For all official purposes, this meeting is not taking place. This is the most I can do for you, Yngva. You have my blessing to continue."

Yngva stared. Her mind was failing to grasp… everything. She had said all the words she could say. Now she fought to scrape together any more. "... Who are you?"

The man produced a key from beneath his cloak, slotted it into the cell door lock, and twisted it open. The barred door swung open gently under its own weight. "Only one more beleaguered servant of Skyrim, trying to do his duty despite himself. That's all I want you to know me as."

It hit Yngva like a brick to the face.

"You're…" She couldn't finish the sentence. But through the agonizing fog of her sleepiness, she was realizing what this conversation meant. What she'd just done.

She dropped to one knee and lowered her head. It was all she could do.

The things Yngva had said just now could have counted as treason themselves. The book didn't even matter at this point. She could have been put to the axe simply for her outrageous excuse of a defense.

"Stand," High King Harald said. "I wanted to hear the truth from you. And I wanted to hear it myself. I trust no others in my court to find it for me. Even my prized order is falling into danger."

The Nord girl forced herself to stand back up. She could scarcely believe her own eyes. This man seemed so ordinary, so… so much like any other. But he wasn't. He was the most powerful man in Skyrim, and they both knew it.

She was definitely feeling the urge to vomit again.

Yngva asked numbly, "What's going on?"

"Our kingdom is under attack. Officially, we're at peace. But unofficially, someone is moving against us. I suspect the Dwemer, but it's a distant conclusion. We need to find out who is acting, and why. If you are truly without blame in all this, then my congratulations to you—you've entered something much larger than personal revenge. I need you, indeed."

"I shouldn't have said that," Yngva said, before she could stop herself.

"No, I disagree. You've come this far. And truth be told, your way seems more suited than mine. Perhaps some new perspective is exactly what the kingdom needs."

"But how do you know Skyrim is under attack?"

"Because I read that book before its first page was removed. I know what was on it."

Once again, Yngva stared. Her mouth hung open dumbly. This was what she'd come to Winterhold to ask about. This entire thing was madness, from start to finish.

Harald continued. "The order keeps a list of locations of ancient artifacts that are too dangerous to extract from their resting places. Instead of removing them, we monitor them, and make sure no one else knows of their existence. The Gates of Dusk were understood to be the place of a unique artifact, one capable of dropping a stone in the rivers of Time. Whatever was held within it would be transfixed, forever. There are very few things that would require that treatment. Based on our lore, we believe it held an Elder Scroll."

An Elder Scroll. One of the most powerful items in existence, with a capricious tendency to jump into and out of the world whenever it suited them. The Gates of Dusk had been built to force one to stay put.

And someone had stolen it. And the High King was simply telling her this, to her face, at this moment.

"So… I haven't slept since the night before I came to Winterhold," Yngva said, sitting back down on the stone shelf. "And I can't think right now. I feel sick. But it sounds like you're saying someone stole an Elder Scroll from a secret ruin, and tried to make it look like it was just some random expedition gone wrong."

Surprisingly, Harald nodded. "But they made one mistake. They let you get hold of the book. Thus my suspicions about your own allegiance. That doesn't fit into anyone's plan, except maybe the elves."

"I'm not on their side," Yngva snapped, before remembering she was still talking to the gods-damned High King. "I mean… I'll do what you need of me."

Harald took it in stride. "If you need someplace to start, consider this. Something's already going on with Elder Scrolls in Skyrim. I don't know what—we have no interest in collecting them. But only a couple months ago, my order learned of a cultist group south of Snowhawk that had obtained an Elder Scroll for its own use. We brought that under control, but someone's trying to disrupt us. At some point, the scroll was stolen in transit. If you're to be involved in this, then find out where these scrolls are going."

"What is your order? What does it do, exactly?"

Harald glanced behind himself at the door. Then he looked back ahead and let out a sigh. "It's a hidden organization of informants, spies, assassins and warriors, loyal only to me. They have their own code of conduct, and they never interact with the normal chain of command. And they've prevented a dozen conflicts from turning into devastating wars."

"That doesn't sound very Nord-like," Yngva said.

"Perhaps not. But it can't be worse than our usual. You were right, Yngva. Sacking villages and towns and cities, telling ourselves it was the right thing to do?" Harald snorted. "I devised this order at the start of my reign with the intent of finally curbing that. I want a more peaceful Skyrim, I truly do. But we have to fend off our enemies somehow, and so I chose to move beyond war to something stronger."

It sounded terrifying. Yngva wondered how much of the order's efforts included spying on Nords as well as foreigners. Probably a great deal of it. But the worst part was that she couldn't say it was worse than the alternative. Skyrim was indeed surrounded by enemies.

Harald said, "The order is known as the Blades of Men."

The name put a shiver through Yngva's core, though she didn't know why. Something must have connected in her mind, through all the haze of her poor condition.

She replied, "So… what's the significance of the icon on the book? The flame symbol?"

"It's not a flame. But your guess is valid—it was meant to be easily mistaken for other things. No. It's two arms holding a sword."

"Oh. … I don't have any more questions."

Harald nodded and put his hands on his hips. "Then I have one request of you, Yngva. If you're still looking for somewhere to begin. There's a ruin in Eastmarch that we know about, but haven't wanted to disturb, for fear of catching the elves' attention. I have a copy of the book containing the details, but in short—it contains a treasure that we may need."

"Fine," Yngva said. "Where's your book?"

She did need someplace to start, after all.

"Come back to the Star Castle after you've gotten some rest. Ask to see my steward, and he'll allow you to read the book for as long as you need. Obviously, you're not to take it with you. You will want to memorize its contents."

"All right. Thank you, I think." Thank you for not murdering Divayth, she thought. Somehow, she had gone from searching for answers, to pleading for her life, to working in the High King's direct employ.

Madness. From start to finish.

The High King's last words to her were, "Remember: This meeting did not happen. Farewell, Yngva. Skyrim needs you."

With that, he turned and walked out the door once again, leaving Yngva sitting there in her open cell. She couldn't think of any parting words to call after him. She simply sat there.

Then the guards came back in.

They brought Yngva down some stairs to a small stone-walled room, mostly empty, with a window overlooking the Star Castle's wide open bailey. The few belongings she'd had in her pack—except for the book on the Gates of Dusk, which was nowhere to be found—were all together in a wooden trunk, which the guards allowed her to dress from. She put her clothing back on in a speechless daze. The entire thing felt unreal. The turns of events were too much to wrap her mind around. She'd been a traveler, then she'd been a prisoner, and now she was a traveler again. All because she'd said some thoughtless words to a man she'd never thought she would meet.

She wanted to go straight to bed, wherever her bed would be now, and revisit this entire thing in the morning. But the sun was already up outside. It was morning. The entire night had gone by. Now she didn't know what to do.

The door behind her opened. Two guards were standing there. In between them, Divayth stumbled into the room. The sight of him made Yngva nearly jump in shock.

He was already wearing his travel clothes. His robes, his cloak, his gloves, all of that. But he was barely standing. His hair was messily rinsed wet, for some reason. His eyes were vacant and unfocused and bloodshot, with big dark circles sunken in his face below them. His golden skin had gone pale and sweaty.

Yngva realized that the guards had been holding him upright until a moment ago.

She stepped forward and caught Divayth around the chest before he could fall. Over the elf's shoulder, she stared aghast at the two impassive guards. "What did you do to him!?"

"Nothing a good healing spell didn't fix," the guard on the left said. Some man. Yngva couldn't tell these people apart. They all wore the same visors on their faces. "He's a free elf now, thanks to you. Don't let him set anything on fire on the way out."

"What—" Yngva didn't even get to say anything to them. They simply closed the door in her face.

If everything before had been unreal, this was just nightmarish. But even now, part of her thought it made sense. She was a Thane's daughter. Divayth was an elf. Of course they were going to be treated differently in prison. Yet this still felt like a bad dream.

She'd thought she'd averted the crisis by talking to the High King just now. But no. Something terrible had already happened.

Divayth wasn't going to be able to stand up under his own weight. Yngva guided him to sit down on the floor against the wall, putting herself by the elf's side on the way. It was the most she could do.

"Hey," she said, keeping her arm around Divayth's back, holding him against her. His body felt so light. "Divayth. Divayth, look at me."

The Chimer rolled his head slowly until his face was pointed right at Yngva. His eyes focused on her slowly. "Hello," he said, a little hoarsely. "Did you … get what you came for?"

Yngva wanted to storm back out of the room, find the High King again, and punch him a dozen times in the gut. But that wasn't going to happen. Harald was probably a better fighter than her anyway.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry they hurt you. We're going to get out of here now."

Divayth put on a little mirthless smile. He was still barely focused at all. It looked he was about ready to pass out. "I've had worse. Just… tell me it was worth it."

"It was. We can leave now."

Yngva had always taken it for granted that she was a loyal Nord. Of course she was. Snowhawk was her home, Idrun was her Jarl, Harald was her High King, and all of the rest. But she'd just gotten a taste of what the High King did to prisoners. Just a tiny taste. And it was horrible.

She couldn't say that she was on the side of the Nords now. Not after seeing all of this. And she certainly wasn't on the side of the elves. She was alone.

Almost.

Divayth said, "I didn't think they'd let me go."

"We're free. We're safe. Alright? We're going to… we're going to go to an inn. And get some rest. And then we're going to get out of here. You can go back to Veloth, or Whiterun or… wherever you want to go. I won't stop you."

"You could have left without me," Divayth said, not paying attention to Yngva's words. "They kept saying it was my fault. Wanted me to confess to having some scheme with that damn book."

"It wasn't. I'm not leaving here without you. Can you walk? I want to get us out of here."

"You could have left without me," he repeated. He was blinking a lot. Yngva realized, with another shock, that he was beginning to shed tears. "I thought you would. If I were you… I wouldn't have thought twice…"

Now Yngva was going to start tearing up too. She couldn't help it. This night had been madness. They were both lucky to even be alive. But she still managed to get out, "You're my friend. I'm not leaving you behind."

She put her other arm around Divayth's front, and pulled him into a trembling tight embrace.

"Alright," Divayth mumbled, his voice muffled in Yngva's cloak. "Alright. I'm your friend."


	24. Preparations

The sun rose and fell. Its cycle was unending. The dream was eternal. The idea was real.

He could only watch.

The girl was watching them gather in a crowd. Sitting on the bough of a leafy tree, swinging her feet back and forth in the air underneath. She was bored. They'd said they were having guests, but this was more than she'd thought. There must have been twenty of the strangers, talking to her family, talking to the other families. Some of them were tired. Those ones weren't talking much.

Her parents had told her to wait, to not wander, to not make noise. It was boring. She wanted to go back to the field. Her dog wanted to play with her. It was such a nice sunny day. It would have been perfect for it.

She liked sitting up here, at least. She had a big straw hat to keep away the sun. It was still boring. She wished she had wings like a bird, so she could fly down from the branch without having to climb. That would be fun.

There were a few other children in the group of strangers, but they were the tired ones, mostly. Some of their mothers and fathers were carrying them. Her parents had said she'd get to play with the new children, but she didn't think so. They didn't look like they wanted to.

Someone called her name. The word made her freeze.

"Ceyrel!"

She looked down. Her father was calling up to her. Not smiling.

"Come back down here now!"

She didn't want to. They didn't like that she was in the tree. But she was up here now. If she didn't come down, they couldn't get her.

The vision broke apart in a smooth, sliding tinkle of fragmented thought.

For a moment, there was nothingness. A fleeting instant of peace, of total absence of being. It was not made to last.

The scream pierced his skull. Out of nothing came agony. Liquid warmth flowed from a dozen places. Limbs jerked against biting restraints.

Faces shrouded in dark cloth masks looked down upon him, gloved hands holding thin metal knives and spikes still dripping with blood. Light and noise was everywhere, voices speaking words he didn't understand.

There was no love in their eyes. There was no soul. There was only cruelty and pain. There was only hatred.

He would have revenge. He had to have revenge.

Deathly fingertips reached out in the darkness to touch his own. His heart ached for them.

The blue figure scowled down upon him. Judging his every move, his every thought, waiting for a mistake. It had to come soon.

Blood dripped onto a puddle, reflections of firelight multiplying in the ripples. One drop, after another, after another.

And that was the dream.

That was all.

Middas, 7:56 AM, 15th of Frostfall, 1E 173  
Underground Stronghold

"We're not going to be training today."

Emund squinted. "What?"

Gelther wasn't even wearing his training gear. He was wearing some completely ordinary-looking clothes. A tunic, and leggings and boots and a few other things. He could have passed for a farmer.

Here they were, in the training room, all prepared for a solid morning of sparring, and it wasn't happening. Whatever this was about, it was going to be interesting.

"We're not going to be training," the gray-haired Nord repeated. "We've been at this for two months. It's time for you to move forward."

Emund reared back.

He'd known this day would come eventually. It had to. He wanted it to. So did the people here, he figured. They wouldn't give him food and shelter and gear and training if they didn't expect anything in return for it someday. But for Emund's own part—this place wasn't unpleasant, sure, but it couldn't be the rest of his life. The world was going on without him. That had to change.

"You're sending me out," he said. "You're sending me on a mission. What's this for?"

Gelther smiled and began to walk towards the younger Nord—past him, actually, for the door out. "I can't say. I was simply told to collect you and bring you along."

That seemed about right. Nobody in this bizarre dungeon of a workplace had any idea what anyone else did. Emund had learned not to question it. It really worked out well, because no one was overly bothered by the fact they couldn't ask him anything.

So he followed Gelther out of the room, and off they went through the magelit corridors of the stronghold. It was fine. He hadn't put on his training armor yet anyway.

Today was a fairly busy day, like always. Various people were going around between rooms, some carrying packages, some walking in pairs or groups. Emund recognized most of their faces by now, but he knew almost none of their names. They never talked.

Gelther led him out into the main hall, then down to almost the very far end of it, then into another quiet side corridor. He stopped at a closed door, made of reinforced wood like all the others. Instead of opening, he rapped on it with his knuckles. Not in a normal knock, either. He did one knock, paused, did three fast knocks, paused, then did one knock again. Some kind of code.

At some point, Emund had to wonder who actually kept track of all this secret stuff. Another question he wasn't supposed to know the answer of.

He came up to Gelther's side and stopped right as the secret knock came to an end. When it was done, he eyed the door warily—whose room was this?—but gave Gelther a little sidelong glance. "So, uh… are you going to be accompanying me on this mission?"

The older Nord shrugged. "Can't imagine it'd help much. Your whole thing is stealth. I'd give you away. But we'll see what our orders are."

A thick metal latch slid audibly behind the door. It swung open. Standing there, right in front of him, was a Nord woman in light armor. He knew this woman's face. A little older, with shoulder-length red hair starting to see streaks of gray.

It was Hylana. The one who had helped Gelther identify his motives the day they'd first arrived at the barn. Emund had never seen her since.

"Hello, Gray One," she said. "Please come in. Thank you, Gelther."

With that, she stepped aside. Behind her was a spacious room filled with all sorts of shelves and chests and racks, which in turn were filled with books and gear and weapons and gods knew what else. In the middle of it all was a semicircle of six wooden chairs atop a colorful rug, headed by one chair behind a large desk. The rear of the room was host to a gigantic floor-to-ceiling map of Tamriel made out of tapestry cloth, fixed onto a stone partition that had gaps on the left and right. There was plenty of room between it and the back wall, probably for a sleeping space of some kind.

It was certainly a fancy-looking chamber, even by this stronghold's standards. Emund took it in for a moment, then walked inside.

Gelther wouldn't be joining him for this conversation. The man was already walking off down the corridor again. Maybe he didn't have permission to know what Emund and Hylana would be talking about.

Once he was in, Hylana closed and locked the door again. The latch was an elaborate Dwemer-made thing, with golden metal bars locking into staples along the doorframe at six different points. It looked like it could've held up to anything short of a siege-size battering ram.

Emund whistled. "That's a lock, alright."

"It works well enough," Hylana said airily as she began to circle around the room. Heading for her desk. "How are you feeling, Gray One? You've been here for two months' time. Are you well?"

"No complaints," Emund answered, walking slowly after her. He figured he'd just sit in one of the chairs, maybe.

In truth, the training schedule here was still very grueling. As he'd gotten better at it all, the regimen had only become more strenuous. Sparring, running, throwing heavy rocks—he was used to ending his afternoons soaked in sweat. Then there was all the other stuff. All the reading. Learning about different plants and creatures, learning how to follow tracks in the wild, learning the geography of Skyrim. At this rate, they were going to start trying to teach him how to cast spells.

And the only reason he'd been able to survive it, let alone get anywhere in the training, was because of his connection to the Place. He didn't want to try to explain that to anyone here. They wouldn't remember it even if he did.

Hylana stepped behind her desk, but didn't sit down. She said, "Gelther has told me that you've made remarkable strides in your training. That you started out like a novice to everything we've taught you, but that you've made incredible progress since then." She shrugged pleasantly. "I'm willing to accept that. The question is whether you're ready to get out there and put your skills to the test."

"Something tells me we'll find out either way," Emund replied dryly.

Yes, he knew this drill. He was still waiting for the rest of the explanation.

"That's true." Hylana smiled guiltily. "We weren't planning on deploying you yet. But today we received word from the High King of a new circumstance. Some adventuring duo came his way, and he sent them off on an archaeological mission that we'd been planning for you to handle later."

Emund frowned. "Then I should keep waiting, shouldn't I?"

"Not quite. We'd like you to go to the location and wait for them to arrive. Make sure no one else comes to do the same, and watch over them while they're inside. If you can help it, don't make contact with them. They don't know about everything we do."

"Neither do you or I."

The Nord woman laughed. "Fair point. But still. You'll be wanting to head out there as soon as possible. As in, today."

This turn of events was moving quickly. Ten minutes ago, Emund had expected everything today to be business as usual. Now… now he wasn't sure what to expect. That story about the adventuring duo was particularly odd. What had they done with the High King, to get him to send them randomly on this task?

More than that, what did the people in this underground lair have to do with the High King? Did they work for him? It might've explained all the cloak and dagger. No one, within or without Skyrim's borders, would've liked to learn of a secretive cabal of spies and schemers working right under their noses.

But that wasn't really important at the moment. He nodded. "What's the archaeological mission?"

"There's an Atmoran ruin located in the forests of Eastmarch, about fifty miles south of Windhelm. Its original name is lost to history, but our sources call it Ysgramor's Vault." As Hylana spoke, she walked over to the shelves on the right side of the room, and retrieved a single book. Then she came up and held it out for Emund to take. "This is all of our documentation on it."

Emund accepted the book, turning it so he was looking at the front cover. It wasn't an overly thick codex, maybe thirty or forty pages bound in red leather. The cover didn't have a title page. Just a raised black icon that looked kind of like a flame.

"That's interesting," he said flatly.

"Read it before you leave. It'll tell you how to get there and what to expect. But I must ask you to leave the book here. Commit whatever you like to memory, but we've already had an incident of losing a book when someone was out traveling. I'd prefer it to not happen again."

No doubt, there was an interesting story there. Also no doubt, Emund wasn't going to hear it from Hylana.

He asked, "So what's this duo going there for? Did the High King want them to fetch something?"

"By my understanding, yes. Whenever we learn of artifacts or other secrets that would be unwise to remove from their resting places, we leave them alone. There's said to be a stone in Ysgramor's Vault that serves as a bulwark against all forms of magic. We haven't moved it because we suspect it's highly well-guarded, and we wouldn't be able to retrieve it without betraying our presence. I'm skeptical that the High King's adventuring duo will have any better luck, but there you are."

A bulwark against all forms of magic. That sounded useful, in some bizarre, vague way. Emund didn't know what to think of it, honestly. He shrugged.

"You wanted me to retrieve it because my cowl lets me be so sneaky. Right?"

"That's right." Hylana smiled. "If you want to know anything more, I really recommend you consult the book, because it has every relevant scrap of information we could find on the place. It's not easy to put all of that together, but we do it because someday it'll come in handy. In the case of Ysgramor's Vault, that day is today."

There was one other thing to keep in mind. Emund hadn't forgotten it. He might have been working for these strange mysterious people now, but he wasn't here for whatever reasons they all were. He hadn't really had a choice.

"How is this going to help me recover my old identity?"

Hylana was unfazed. It was a question like any other. "The first thing to keep in mind is that we weren't preparing to send you out today. We would've had you do at least one lower-stakes mission to warm up first, possibly with Gelther in your company. And the plan would've been to tell you more about your situation then. That being said, the rest of us in the stronghold haven't been idle while you've been training. Among other things, we've done some research into how the Gray Cowl of Nocturnal works. I've been keeping apprised about it."

Emund nodded. "And?"

"It seems like the Gray Cowl has always been a cursed item—at least for as long as we know of it. There are very few Daedric artifacts to share this quality, if any. Generally, they're bestowed by Daedric Princes in reward for services by a mortal champion. But the Gray Cowl is different. Nocturnal never bestowed it. It was taken from her, against her own will.

"The exact circumstances of the theft are impossible to verify. This is where the story gets strange. We found one saying that it was stolen when a few witches summoned Nocturnal in Mundus, only for a skilled thief to snatch the cowl from Nocturnal's body in a moment of distraction. We found another saying that the cowl was part of Nocturnal's identity when she was first created, but she left it behind when she became fixated on mortal affairs, only for a wandering scavenger to pick it up. Another still said that the cowl was originally intended as a gift, but a wicked mortal slew the intended recipient—and impersonated him long enough to take the cowl for himself. Any of these could be true. Or all of them, given how Daedra work. But the one common theme is that the Gray Cowl was taken, not given.

"As for how exactly you can free yourself from the curse… that part is less clear. I suppose you could always try earning favor with Nocturnal and asking her to rid you of the curse, but I doubt she'll listen. If we obtain the right magical artifacts, we could undo some aspect of what happened to you in particular. But it's as I said before. We've only just begun to investigate this mystery. We can help you more later, when we've had more time to work, and when you've completed more missions on our behalf."

Emund took it all in slowly. It wasn't just the new information on the curse. More was speaking to him. This was making him ponder on the person he was becoming.

Because he was becoming a different person, wasn't he? Would the Emund of a year ago have found anything in common with the Emund of today? He wondered what would happen if the curse of the Gray Cowl broke the moment he climbed out of the stronghold. If he were free to walk right on back to Tvalistead, to try and resume his life like before.

Even without the Place to help him, he figured by this point he could take Rond in a fist fight. He'd learned enough of the basics, and Rond didn't really know that much. He was just a farmer who enjoyed being bigger and stronger than the other villagers.

Did he still care about that idiot? Did he care about Rond? No one cared. It didn't matter.

It wasn't like he was going to go back to Tvalistead for his father's sake. Maybe to let the man know he wasn't dead. He certainly wasn't going to go back to Tvalistead so he could resume his little work as an innkeeper's boy. There wasn't much reason for him to want to go back there.

But still, Hylana had made a good point the first time they'd spoken. As long as this curse was upon him, Emund's only choices were to be a distrusted figure or a literal nobody. He had to give himself a better future than that.

When Hylana's explanation was over, Emund said, "That's good enough for now. Is there anything else I know before I start, uh… reading this book?"

"As a matter of fact, yes." The Nord snapped her fingers in realization, smiled at Emund, then promptly turned and strode off around the corner of the rear partition, right out of sight.

There wasn't much to do but stand there and wait. Some large items were being very loudly rummaged through. They sounded heavy.

Half a minute or so later, Hylana returned with a bundle of black-gray cloth under her arm. Her face was a little flushed from exertion, but she was smiling. "I've been waiting for a chance to give this to someone. As I understand it, you prefer lighter armor?"

"I can handle an arming jacket well enough," Emund said, peering at the bundle curiously. It looked a bit … tattered, actually. Very worn down, very old. This was going to be interesting. "Leather armor, chain, whatever. No one's exactly built me a suit of full plate since I got here."

"You won't need one. Here, take this." She held out the cloth bundle in both arms. It was surprisingly big for something that looked so threadbare. But there weren't a lot of features to be seen.

Emund stepped forward and picked up the bundle—it was actually very light—and allowed it to unfurl in his hands.

He gave the cloth a good long look. A smile slowly spread on his face. He could see why nobody here was already wearing this thing.

Hyalana broke the silence after a few seconds. "With that on, you'll be protected against both cold and heat. But more than that, you'll find any wounds you sustain will heal in a span of minutes. Those are the benefits we've observed from it, at least."

Three enchants, on one item. Emund didn't know much about magic, but he knew enough to recognize a one-of-a-kind treasure when he saw it. He folded the cloth over his arm and said, "Thank you. I promise I'll put it to good use."

"I have no doubt you will." Hylana smiled once again. She had a sweet smile. "I'll have the rest of your items for the journey assembled while you read the book over. If you have any other questions, I can try to answer them for you now."

Emund nodded. He stepped aside and sat down in the nearest of the chairs, thumbing through all the pages of the book in one stroke. After all the reading he'd done these past weeks, a little more couldn't hurt.

Besides that this time, he'd be reading about a place he planned to go to.

"One other thing," he said, looking up suddenly at Hylana. "Can you tell me more about this adventuring duo?"


	25. Caught in the Act

Morndas, 4:56 PM, 6th of Frostfall, 1E 173

Mzulft

"Wake up, Dalzren."

Dalzren opened her eyes slowly. A hand was shaking her shoulder. She'd fallen asleep with her head on a stone desk. She couldn't feel the right half of her face.

She rubbed her eyes and pushed herself upright a little. "What?"

Angnthamz, the white-haired Dwemer mage, was looking down at her. "It's almost five. You need to be getting home."

Here they were, in the secret room, next to the secret device. Two of the thing's five crystal jaws were still closed, the other three still open and waiting. Over the past month, Dalzren had replaced all of the lenses on the machine with ones she had ground herself, reinforced the metal armatures, and established a magic-neutral aura in the room for added security.

She had also done a great deal of sleeping. It was still the only way that she could handle the Soul Fray. Sleep came easily now. When the soul was at rest, when it wasn't being strained by waking existence, it couldn't tear itself yet further asunder—or at least, that was Angmthanz's idea about it all.

Meanwhile, Chief Designer Hizeft was barely to be found. She could never be around for long, not with an entire Domain to oversee. She'd been notified of Dalzren's condition, and had acknowledged it without comment. That was all that could be said for her. Any further attempt to reach out had failed.

There was still hope yet. There was hope that this project would be finished in time for the inevitable to be averted. In the meantime, Dalzren had found that dwelling unnecessarily on harsh truths still didn't lessen their harshness.

"I suppose so." She braced both of her hands on the desk, then began pushing herself to her feet.

"The project will be here tomorrow," Angmthanz told her, as though ameliorating the grievance of her having to leave. "You can rest at home until then."

From anyone else, that would have sounded like unbearable condescension. But Angmthanz didn't seem to be like most other Dwemer. Perhaps that was why he had ended up in the Domain of Magicka instead of something more in line with Dwemer priorities.

"Thank you," the younger Dwemer replied, before starting towards the exit. "I'll see you tomorrow."

She proceeded out in what felt like a trance. The secret corridor, the secret door into the storeroom, the path outside… other people, other Designers, were filtering through the corridor as well. They barely noticed her. People went into and out of the storeroom all the time.

Yet almost as soon as it had begun, her trance was interrupted. A voice yanked her back harshly to reality, spoken from directly behind her.

"Dalzren. Where have you been?"

She turned around.

It was Nirthas, of all people. Presumptuous, flirtatious, uncomfortably artificially young-looking Nirthas. He was striding right at her, a look of consternation on his face.

"Working," she replied blankly. She couldn't properly answer that question even if she desired it.

"You're wanted in the Hall of Learning," Nirthas said. His usual cavalier attitude was gone. "They've been asking after you all afternoon. I've had to tell them to wait until you're done working."

Dalzren frowned. "Learning? Why?" But she already knew the answer. She had only one connection to that place. "Has something happened with my son?"

"Just… go over there." Nirthas walked right past her, shaking his head dismissively.

Either this was some sort of practical joke, or something had gone very wrong in Amalest's day.

The conversation was over. Dalzren hurried out.

The walk from here to there was going to be long. The Hall of Design was near the very top of Mzulft, and the Hall of Learning was near the very bottom. It was almost right on top of the residential blocks, to permit the children of Mzulft to reach their daily destination with a minimum of foot traffic. Or something of that sort—Dalzren hadn't built the place. What mattered was that she had to cross a very long distance downhill, down one ramp after another, through one pair of doors after another, all while wondering what had happened with her son.

If this did turn out to be Nirthas' idea of a joke, she was going to ruin his image in the Domain of Design forever. That mer had disrespected her for the entire time they'd known one another.

So she descended briskly through the main passages of Mzulft, passing by the city's hundreds of other workers returning home from their own jobs. Many wore the robes of the government-managed Domains, but the majority, as always, were common laborers. They gave her a respectful berth as she wove through the crowds.

The entrance to the Hall of Learning was a pair of reinforced doors with the domain title on a large sign above them. The doors were open. She stepped right inside.

As she understood it, the Hall of Learning was arrayed in a T-shape, with the main classrooms along the corridor straight ahead, and more specialized rooms along the far back corridor. She could see the numerous doors on her left and right, connecting to classrooms filled with desks and tables and wax tablets and miniature models and all the other things that children needed to learn. But the children themselves were all gone. School let out at the same time as Domain day shifts, so as to let families reunite at the end of the day.

It was just as well, however—the Chief Educator's office was on the direct left of the entrance. There would likely be no need to venture anywhere else today. She went to it and knocked on the solid metal door.

A metallic lock disengaged on the other side, and the door immediately swung open. That had been simple.

On the other side was a small, sparse room with a single desk and a few metal chairs. A bespectacled, thickly bearded Dwemer in gilded black robes was sitting behind the desk, reading through a large stack of handwritten papers. In front of him, Amalest was sitting and looking glumly at the floor.

So it wasn't a joke after all. Dalzren didn't know how to feel about this yet.

The bespectacled Dwemer was Chief Educator Kaglan. It was always strange seeing him here, because when Dalzren had been a young student, the Chief Educator had been someone else—and Kaglan had been her classmate. Many things had changed since then.

"Good evening," Dalzren said, looking between the two of them expectantly.

Amalest glanced up at her, then looked right back down. His eyes were just the tiniest bit red. And upon closer examination, his nice school outfit had been badly disheveled. This wasn't promising.

Kaglan, meanwhile, put down his papers and addressed her with impeccable calmness. "Designer Dalzren, thank you for coming," he said, although his tone of voice conveyed an ever-so-subtle point to the effect of, 'What took you so long?'. "Please take a seat. Amalest has an apology to make to you."

"I see," Dalzren nodded gravely. She stepped inside and closed the door again behind her, then sat down as she was asked.

Once again, Amalest looked up. His eyes were welling up with tears. "I'm… sorry," he managed to get out, "I'm sorry, I used… physical violence against another student."

Dalzren frowned. Seeing her son in this state upset her already. But she couldn't imagine how this had even managed to happen. Amalest had never had a history of acting out in such ways. He was so well-behaved at home. There was nothing to complain about. And yet here they were.

She asked, "What happened?"

Across the desk, Kaglan was staring intently at Amalest—no doubt, making sure that the boy knew he couldn't try to twist the story in his own favor.

This all felt so macabre and random. It was like a slow, drawn-out version of a Soul Fray attack. There was little to do but wait for it to be over. And, ostensibly, to make sure that Amalest knew never to misbehave this way again.

Amalest began trying to reply. "I—I—I was trying to talk to Nenza during luncheon break, and he started—"

"Nenza was speaking to Amalest about clan politics," Kaglan said, cutting him off. "Amalest replied by striking his face repeatedly. It was witnessed by three supervisors and the entire room's worth of students. Nenza was sent to the Hall of Healing. Amalest is being placed under suspension for one week. In situations like this, a parent is required to pick the child up at the Hall, hence my asking for you."

Suspension for one week. That boded ill for Amalest's academic achievements. No doubt, he was already very well aware of this fact.

Dalzren gazed at her son impassively. "Very well," she said. "I'm sorry my son misbehaved so egregiously. Unless you need my input for anything else, I'll take him on our way."

"No, that's all." Kaglan shook his head. "Thank you for your cooperation, Designer Dalzren. Good day to you."

"And to you." Dalzren stood from her chair. She had no more pleasantries to offer. There was a very taxing conversation ahead of her.

They completed the walk home in silence. Amalest kept his eyes on his feet the entire way. There were more corridors to pass through, more ramps to descend, but eventually they made it. Dalzren fished out her key from her pocket, unlocked the front doors, and ushered her son inside with her.

She closed the door behind them with a meaningfully drawn-out click, pausing for a moment afterward. Then she pocketed her key and turned back around.

Amalest was standing there in the middle of the living room, right out in the open, arms at his sides, on the verge of tears once again. Deservedly so, based on the account of what he'd done. But now they were alone together, and now they could talk.

Dalzren asked, "Why?"

"I couldn't help it," Amalest said, and now the tears began to run anew. He wasn't even bringing himself to look up at her. "The things Nenza was saying… I couldn't let him keep talking like that."

It was self-evident to Dwemer thinkers that violence wasn't the correct answer to a problem of words. Of course it was necessary to use against enemies of the clan, but to use it against one's own brethren was to forfeit any claim to a superior argument. In a way, it amounted to conceding defeat in a debate.

Dalzren gestured for Amalest to sit down at their table. She remained standing, if only so she could begin removing the attire of her office. The belt and jewelry alone would take a minute. "All right. What did he say?"

Amalest swallowed and composed himself as best he could.

"He was saying that the old way of Dwemer thinking was going to go, and there would be a new world, new ideas… and then he pointed at me, and he said that I was the old kind of Dwemer, because my father was from Husbandry and my mother was from Design, and I only knew how to… to exploit the weak. And then he asked me if I had anything to say, and I couldn't think of anything. Everyone started laughing. And I just… I couldn't let him get away with it. So I went in and I got him."

He glanced away again. "It made them stop laughing, at least."

A moment passed. There was only the sound of the city machinery. Then he continued.

"I tried to tell them that he'd been belittling me in front of the class, but they didn't care because I hit first, and…" Now his composure began to waver again. "And I went to the Chief Educator's office, and I'd never been inside it before, and he told me I'm being put in suspension, and then I had to sit there, and sit there and sit there until you got out of work, and now all of… now you're going to do something to me too, and…"

Dalzren had heard enough. She stepped forward and knelt down in front of Amalest's chair, taking hold of him by the arms, before he could begin shedding any more tears. "Hey. Look at me."

He did.

"I'm not happy that you attacked another student. But it's done now. You're home. And I think you've been through enough punishment today. Now go get yourself cleaned up, and we can have dinner."

Amalest stared at her for a few seconds, uncomprehending. Then he leaned forwards and hugged her. It was a brief, tight embrace. Dalzren returned it in the same manner.

This evening's events were a woeful turn in many ways. It was worrying that the political divide in Mzulft had stretched all the way down into the discussions between children at learning. And it didn't help matters that Amalest had succumbed to representing one side of that divide with violence.

She wondered what family background that Nenza boy belonged to. She didn't know him particularly well.

"Go on, now," she said, leaning back from the embrace, still kneeling. "Get yourself out of your fancy clothes."

Amalest nodded and began to leave the room.

Despite sleeping through much of the day, Dalzren was already beginning to run out of her ability to focus. She was reaching that point where her mind was starting to feel like a veil had drawn over it. Her face itched. She wiped at it.

Then she glanced at the full-length mirror on the wall. She instantly knew it had been a mistake.

In her reflection, there was blood. Oozing down her face, flowing out from her eyes and nose, soaking her robes. The dark puddle spread rapidly beneath her.

Panic engulfed her. She knew what this was, this wasn't real, it was… it wasn't real…

She looked down. Her arms were coming apart. Flesh was melting like wax, separating from bones, dripping to the floor. Blood was everywhere. There was a horrible, constant shriek in her ears, like metal machinery being torn apart.

The room began to tilt. She was looking at the ceiling.

A voice called to her. A distant, tiny voice, drowned in the sea of piercing noise.

"Mother? Are you alright? … Mother!"

Then it all faded away.

And then she was looking up at the ceiling again, with two faces staring down at her. They were moving, speaking. They looked like blurs. Bright light was passing in front of her. "... pupils are responding…" a voice said, among other sounds.

Dalzren didn't understand what was happening. She tried to sit up. A hand pressed firmly on her chest. "Don't get up," said a voice. "You could fall again."

Healers. These were healers, inside her home. They were examining her, even though they weren't going to find anything. Amalest must have called them.

The horror jolted through her like an electric shock. Amalest had seen her have a Soul Fray attack. The secret was out. She would have to explain this to him now, and find some way to keep it from upsetting him. What could she say? I'm slowly dying from an incurable magical ailment, but it won't affect you too until I'm dead? How could she tell her child what this meant?

This must have been an increasingly traumatic day for Amalest. The horror gave way steadily to a mounting, aching, unbearable sorrow. She wanted to protect her son, and she couldn't. Not from Mzulft, not from the Soul Fray, and not even from the truth. It made her want to scream. To cry out and raise her fists and beat the gods bloody for doing this to an innocent child.

She willed herself to speak. "Where… where's … Amalest?"

"I'm here, mother," Amalest's voice said. He was very nearby. "I'm holding your hand."

Dalzren's heart was going to melt. Even after everything, her son was still by her side.

"I can't feel it." She grunted and pushed back a little, trying to sit up. This time, the healers allowed her to.

Amalest was sitting there by her side, just as he'd said. And when Dalzren looked down, she saw the boy's right hand grasping her left.

She saw it, but she didn't feel it.

"You're still in shock," one of the healers said. "They may be numb."

She held her hands up in front of her face, pulling away from Amalest's grasp. They were trembling slightly. She tried giving her fingers a flex.

Nothing happened.

What had she just seen in the vision? In the visual metaphor of the Soul Fray? What had her body been doing to her?

All of the horror, all of the woeful sorrow, gave way to a sudden, all-consuming panic.

"I can't… I can't move them," she breathed. "I can't move my hands."


	26. The Vault

Sundas, 5:22 PM, 19th of Frostfall, 1E 173

Eastmarch

Nothing had felt the same since Winterhold. Yngva and Divayth were on their way with new knowledge, new instructions, new purpose. They were on a real mission, together, side by side.

But that wasn't truly the reason why things felt so different. It had been the experience in the Star Castle, with High King Harald and his men. Yngva had never thought that she would feel disgust towards her own people. It would have taken an unimaginable turn for that to happen.

The unimaginable had happened. She had been imprisoned for nothing. Divayth had been tortured for nothing.

That had been two weeks ago. Since then, they had traveled south down Skyrim's eastern border, through the biting cold of the Winterhold, past the snowy city of Windhelm, and now into the rugged evergreen forests of Eastmarch. Divayth had had every chance to leave. The Velothi Mountains had stood tall to their left practically this entire time. He could have turned and headed on his way back home.

"I think this might be it," Divayth said from beside her. He had the map unfolded in one hand as they walked. "The top of the hill, southeast of the waterfall. We're here. Aren't we?"

He could have left. Yet here he was.

Yngva stopped in place to appraise their surroundings. They stood in the midst of an endless sea of tall, narrow trees, branches covered in needles waving gently in the wind high above. The ground beneath their feet was soft and loamy, not snowed over. Yet despite being so far south, the air was chilly. There were no birds, no insects. Winter was just around the corner.

It was the two of them, and the pack horse. Out here in the woods, so far from anyone else, it felt like they were the only people in Skyrim.

She replied to Divayth, "Well, if we make it to the far side of the hill and we still haven't found it, we can double back and resume looking. There's probably some systematic way to search a landscape like this."

"Good, now I'm going to be thinking about the optimal path that one could take to cover a hill like this. Mathematically speaking, that is." Divayth glanced at her with a rueful smirk. "I feel like a Dwemer. Kelthenez must have rubbed off on me. Pinch me if I start ranting about the mathematical best way to fasten Falmer to chains."

Yngva couldn't help but chuckle. She kept her eyes on their surroundings, all the same. This was the wilderness. Feeling like one was alone in the woods was the perfect setup for being attacked by wolves. "Was Kelthenez really that obsessed?"

"No, but I like to think—oh." Divayth stopped suddenly and pointed ahead. "Oh. Yngva. We found it."

Ahead of them, a low, round, tilted platform of stone bricks jutted up from the ground. It was overgrown with plants all over, and on the lower left side, the earth rose up and threatened to spill on top of it. But the structure was, without a doubt, man-made.

Divayth resumed walking. They were headed straight towards it.

But Yngva didn't let herself revel in joy just yet. She drew her sword—the leaf-bladed shortsword of Daedric metal from her parents' storage cache—and held it low at her side as she walked. Her other hand was still holding the pack horse's lead, or she would have put something in it as well. "It could be an unrelated structure. We might not be in the right place."

Alternatively, it could have been the right structure, but with an ambush force lying in wait.

"Oh, do you suppose our book meant the other hill southeast of the waterfall?" Despite his verbal reply, Divayth readied a shock spell in one hand as he headed forward. He seemed to get the idea.

The stone platform rose about four feet off the ground on its highest side, and reached about ten feet across. The slanted top was adorned with a massive, circular doorway, with two rusted-over iron doors that interlocked in an S shape. There were no handles or hinges to open them. But this was clearly the way to enter something.

They were looking at the entrance to a real Nord ruin, untouched over the centuries. This would be an opportunity like no other.

"Ysgramor's Vault," Yngva murmured, just so she could hear the words in this moment. "We found it."

Divayth put the map away in his belt pouch, then put his now-free hand on his hip. "Yes. Yes, we did. I suppose we'll want to dive in now, won't we?"

Yngva looked around at their surroundings. It was the same forest as before. Nothing new was visible. But that only said so much. "Can you give me a life-detection spell?"

The Chimer brought his free hand back up, this time with an alteration aura readied. He cast a continuous spell for a few seconds while turning in a complete circle. Yngva heard an eerie rushing of magic around her, a reflection of her own heartbeat—and, as she watched, her torso was ensconced in a glowing blue haze. So was their pack horse. No other auras appeared.

And just as quickly as it had begun, the spell ended. "We're alone," Divayth said. "Unless there are any undead hiding behind the trees. So. Time to dive into the ruin now, yes?"

Yngva sheathed her sword. "What's the hurry? We've been traveling for weeks. This place has been here for centuries. We can take a few minutes more to prepare."

Preparation consisted mainly of setting up camp. First, Yngva tethered the pack horse to one of the nearby trees. Then she sat down on the edge of the vault entrance, removed her boots, and gave herself a fresh change of footwraps while Divayth retrieved their food and cooking materials. They'd been stretching the travel provisions by foraging and hunting a little bit on the way, so dinner tonight would include a rabbit that Divayth had hit with a lightning bolt earlier in the afternoon. It was probably halfway cooked already.

There was no longer any need to worry about cooking without wood. Yngva gathered a few fallen branches from the vicinity while Divayth laid some stones in a circle. It only took five or so seconds of continuous flame casting from them both to get the fire going. Then Yngva found a suitable rock to sit on before setting about skinning the rabbit with a butcher's knife, leaving Divayth to retrieve any other food and do whatever he needed to prepare.

"I've never skinned a rabbit that was felled with a shock spell," Yngva said, halfway through her business of skinning. She knew how to do this, but it still took her a while for lack of constant practice. She'd have to rinse her hands well afterward.

Divayth was retrieving supplies from the pack horse. Among them would be the roasting spit, which Yngva would need from him soon. He asked, "Is it any different?"

"Not terribly. Fur's a little singed." Once she'd removed the pelt, Yngva started preparing the meat itself for cooking. This part was messy. There was a great deal of offal in the rabbit, and she wasn't planning on eating it. She put up with the process.

Honestly, no matter how grisly this was—firstly, it would be nothing compared to lethal combat, which Yngva was sure she would face sometime soon—but secondly, it was an oddly calming routine. She was finding that her excitement at entering this ruin was riding on a current of sheer, shameful nervousness.

Once the rabbit was ready, she skewered it carefully on the spit, then put it over the fire. This would take a little while.

She asked suddenly, "Have you ever explored a ruin like this?"

"Like this? What do you mean by 'like this'?" Divayth was still over by the pack horse, retrieving various items. Only some of them were for dinner. The others were for the exploration to come, mostly going into a leather backpack. Yngva recognized her crossbow in the collection, among other things. "Like a Nord ruin? Or a ruin that nobody knows about? Or a ruin that I'm only nearby because it's someone else's idea?"

"Any of those," she shrugged. "This is all new for me. I'm curious."

The Chimer gave her a brief, neutral glance. "I went on a few expeditions in Veloth, but I was always the young novice tagging along to see how the adults did things. And those were just into wet muddy caves and dry dusty crypts. Nothing interesting."

Yngva nodded. "Ever have to fight anything in them?"

"Sort of. A couple times, we'd get approached by other elves who wanted the same treasures as us. Members of rival clans, and that sort of thing. It always ended in violence." Divayth paused, staring off into space. He'd begun getting some feed for the horse, and was holding it just out of her reach now. She took it well. "... Now that I'm thinking about it, I don't know why they risked their lives over that stuff. It wasn't very good treasure to begin with. I almost wonder if they just wanted an excuse to kill each other without starting a big war."

"The way you've acted about Nords, I got the feeling we disappointed you in some way."

"Oh, no. My people are little better. They don't hate me so much as yours, because I'm one of them, but I've tried not to think about what would happen if you came back to Veloth with me."

"I'd kick all their teeth in because they're no match for my Nord ferocity."

Divayth snorted in amusement. "That's the spirit."

Eventually, once the Chimer had unpacked enough, he began assembling their other food items on plates. He filled their cups with water from the skin, then poured a splash of bottled mead into each. They hadn't touched the mead yet, but Yngva couldn't disagree that now was a good time to start.

Soon he came around to give Yngva her plate. It had the cup of good water, one of the twice-baked biscuits they'd picked up in Winterhold, and another apple. This journey had certainly had a lot of apples on it.

"Thanks," Yngva said, immediately taking a sip from the water. She could definitely taste the nice sweet bite from the mead.

Divayth sat down beside her and tasted his own drink. "Mm. I think I can stomach mead when it's this watered-down. I don't know how Nords do it, normally. It's like drinking fermented pure honey."

"I think that's essentially the idea," Yngva grinned.

"That rabbit smells good." The Chimer paused for a moment, then lit up with a seeming realization, glancing behind himself at the underground entrance. "Hey, maybe we'll lure out the monsters of the Nord ruin by enticing them with roasted meat on an open fire. What self-respecting Nord monster could pass that up?"

Yngva wasn't even sure if draugr had a sense of smell. For that matter, she wasn't sure if they actually breathed. Maybe she'd find out later this evening. They seemed to be in every single Nord ruin ever built, going by what she'd read.

She addressed Divayth normally anyway. "All right, but when you say self-respecting Nord monster—"

"No, that's not in reference to actual living Nords, thank you very much." Divayth gave her a petulant look. "I thought you'd know better than that."

"Of course. The real monsters must be the ones without any self-respect."

"The ones who go around with leather straps over their chests in place of armor. And in place of shirts. You know the ones I'm talking about."

Things hadn't been the same since Winterhold, that was true. It seemed that nothing brought people together quite like common suffering.

Yngva ate her biscuit while she waited by the fire, using her water to dunk it in. It was a flavorless way to soften the otherwise rock-hard substance, but it worked. Giving it time to soak meant more time for the rabbit to cook, as well.

When the meat was done cooking, she removed it from the spit and began cutting it into serving pieces while Divayth fetched refills for the water, again with some mead in for good measure. It was no feast, even by the standards of travel, but it was all theirs.

They dug into the roasted rabbit with very little in the way of conversation. No tableware, no napkins, no finesse. They simply ate. The meat was unseasoned and a little dry. Yngva didn't care. She savored every bite.

And she saved the apple for last. The tartness rounded everything out wonderfully. That was satisfying indeed.

Divayth finished around the same time. He picked up their plates and began carrying them back to the pack horse. "All right. Now that that's done… shall we get to opening those doors?"

The first thing they did was extinguish the fire with a few frost spells—leaving the partially-burnt wood dry if they desired it later. Next, they cleaned and put away the cups and plates, so as not to spoil them with food residue. Then it was on to preparing to enter. Yngva put her helmet back on and fetched the crossbow with its quiver. Divayth picked up his backpack that he'd been loading up earlier. This would suffice.

Finally, it was time to enter the ruin.

They came around and approached the stone platform from the lower end, presumably the front. The two rusted metal doors were still locked together in their S shape, blocking the circular passage to whatever lay within.

"I'm not actually sure how to open this," Divayth said. "I'm not seeing a door handle. Or a button or a lever or anything."

"I could try pulling it open," Yngva offered, even though she knew how silly the idea was.

Divayth laughed. "Ah, why not. Be my guest."

Here went nothing.

Yngva braced her gloved fingertips within the crack between the doors, and began to pull. She pulled as hard as she could, as hard as her arms would let her. The doors didn't even budge. It felt like trying to pull apart the bricks of a castle wall.

She gave up after just a few seconds, pulling her hands away and waving her arms outward. Her muscles were still feeling the pressure to move in that direction, even after she was done trying.

"Maybe with a crow's foot," she grunted. "I think I left mine in Snowhawk."

"You know, I bet there's some secret code you're supposed to say. Some magical sensor that's waiting for us to trigger it with the right command." Divayth stepped forward to in front of the door, and cleared his throat. "Ysgramor is the best!" Nothing. He paused. "... Victory or Sovngarde!" Still nothing. "... Falmer taste delicious!"

"Stop it." Yngva swatted Divayth's shoulder with a light hand. "You're being loud. There must be an actual way to open this."

The Chimer smiled at her and stepped back. "Probably. I can think of a couple, off the top of my head. But they'll be loud too."

Yngva stepped back as well, putting her hands on her hips expectantly. "Try me."

"All right," Divayth said, lighting up a dark blue spell aura in one hand. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

With that, he cast his spell at the ground in front of him. There was a brief, almost instantaneous pause—and then a massive orb of purple-white energy swirled into existence, humming and grinding around a central dark void. A shape began to appear inside it—and then the orb collapsed on itself, winking out into nothing. Only the shape was left.

That aura had been for a conjuration spell. Yngva had never seen one of those before.

The shape was of a solid statue of crudely carved bluish-white ice. It had no proper head, no hands, no real feet—only the barest figure of arms and legs, with a simple mound-like extension of the torso on top. But that hardly mattered, because any lack of elegance was made up for with sheer mass. The statue stood nearly twice as tall as Yngva herself did. Its arms were as thick as her entire body. The ground beneath its formless feet sank down a couple inches under all the weight.

Divayth pointed past it, at the doors of the ruin. And then, just like that, the statue began to move. The ice stretched and contracted as smoothly as living muscle, letting it turn around and take a few great stomping steps towards the stone platform.

"I've never seen a frost atronach before," Yngva said numbly.

The Chimer laughed again. "Well, you're about to hear one!"

At that very moment, the atronach raised both of its arms over its head. Yngva covered her ears.

The impact sent a tremor through the very earth. Ice slammed into iron with an explosion of grating noise, but neither gave under the sudden force. So the atronach raised its arms and tried again, bringing both down on top of the doors. Again, the impact—again, the noise. And so it went, over and over, in a ceaseless battering rhythm. And as it went on, the doors began to take visible damage. Rust came sliding down towards the lower end in great big flakes. The iron underneath dented at first, then split open along the S-shaped line, revealing a dark crevice in between.

And the atronach kept pounding and pounding away, seemingly impervious to the physical stress of its own strikes. It kept going until, suddenly, its body fell in upon itself with a crackle of blue-purple sparks, leaving nothing in its place but empty air. The spell's duration had expired. The atronach was gone once more.

The iron doors had been horrifically bent open. It was clear that they had been designed to slide apart, not to swing on hinges. But the atronach had dislodged the doors from their stone housing all the same. Now the rusted metal was left torn and gouged open, like a gaping wound into the ruin below. It was such a brutal aftermath that Yngva found herself almost feeling a trace of remorse at the defiled architecture. But the opening was easily large enough to climb through. Sheer darkness awaited them on the other side.

"Well, that went well," Divayth said cheerily, casting a candlelight spell as he stepped towards the stone platform—right over the frost atronach's giant footprints in the dirt. "Shall we head inside?"

"Remind me to start practicing conjuration when we get back to Snowhawk," Yngva murmured back. Fortunately, she knew enough of other schools to cast the same spell as Divayth. Now they had two little floating orbs of light following them instead of one.

The two of them walked up to the damaged doors side by side, peering down into the ruin's interior. With the evening sunlight dimming down in the treetops, only their candlelight spells shone the way in. There was a terrifyingly steep staircase down into pitch darkness, running in a straight line as far as their spells would show.

Divayth readied his white spell aura again, and this time sent down an orb of moving magelight. It glided all the way down the open stairway, landing at a bottom that was some thirty feet down.

This was the Nord ruin they'd left Winterhold—left Snowhawk, in fact—to explore. It was right here, right before them, all of its secrets within walking distance. They'd done so much travel, so much searching to end up here.

"I am not climbing down this without a rope," Yngva said.

The Chimer was already unslinging his backpack and rooting through the contents. "Far ahead of you, Yngva."

The coil of rope had been with them since the start, but it had never really seen use. Twenty yards of hempen cord, good for climbing or hauling or anything else. Divayth pulled it out and dragged one end over to the nearest tree—since his gloves were fingerless, he had an easier time tying a hitch around the trunk. The moment he was done, Yngva picked up the rest of the coil and tossed it down to the very bottom of the stairway. It unwound halfway in a rippling wave, then the rest thudded on the stone floor by the magelight.

"That was a good knot," Yngva said when Divayth came back closer. "I didn't know you had practice with those."

Divayth made a face. "Just because I'm a mage. Really? Are you useless at everything besides swords, too?"

The Nord girl shrugged pleasantly. "You don't have to think hard to tie knots. I usually expect you'll know the things that are worth your time."

"If your flattery gets any oilier, you'll slip off the rope," Divayth grumbled. "You go first, you have the armor on."

That was just as well. She'd been planning to offer to go first anyway.

And so Yngva braced a foot on the lip of the doorway, took hold of the rope in both hands, and brought herself over onto the far side. The threshold was crossed. She was entering her very first Nord ruin.

With the rope in hand, it was very easy to descend the stairs. She took them carefully, walking backward one step at a time, pausing only to refresh her candlelight spell with one hand. The messy opening to the outside world receded above her. The air grew cooler, taking on a faintly musty odor. The ambient noises of the forest faded away, and there was only the dungeon.

She was tempted to jump off the last couple steps and land on the floor below, but out of concern for possible pressure plate traps, she finished normally and took a careful look around. This was Ysgramor's Vault.

Before her was a single, straight corridor of gray stone bricks, with a low vaulted ceiling and large arched shelves stacked in pairs on the walls. The corridor continued far beyond the illumination of her candlelight, extending into the darkness with the same pattern. If there were any traps in here, Yngva couldn't see them.

But she could see the shelves. Her throat tightened in fear.

There were bodies on them. Dry, dirty gray bodies, all lying on their backs, the flesh withered and stretched over gangly skeletons. They were still encased in dark iron armor, still holding weapons in their hands. The undead servants of the Dragon Cult. Draugr.

It was so unsettling to finally see them in person. Chances were, most of these were still in good enough condition to get up and fight. And they would.

Yngva took a deep breath in, let a deep breath out, and weighed her options.

Divayth was already halfway down the stairs above her. She could call up to him, warn him of the danger, and follow him out—but the draugr were in no hurry. They wouldn't try to chase the duo up the stairs and expose themselves to all different ranged attacks on the way. They would stay down here and wait.

The corridor was straight and unobstructed. She could try running down it, in hopes of awakening as many draugr as possible, and then run back and put Divayth in a good position to obliterate them all with a destruction spell. But that was far too risky. The draugr nearer by her now could catch her on the return, and if they had bows, they could put a dozen arrows in Divayth's body before he could even prepare the right spell.

So far, the draugr hadn't awakened from their shelves. If Yngva unslung the crossbow from her back and began loosing bolts at them where they lay, it might have been possible to slay some before they ever had the chance to attack her. But that wouldn't last long. The attack would no doubt awaken the draugr nearby, and she physically couldn't reload the crossbow quickly enough to keep up with the ensuing chain reaction. After one or two bolts, she would be overwhelmed.

No, there would be only one way to deal with this corridor. The way that came naturally to Nords.

Divayth landed by her side, immediately casting another magelight spell down the corridor. He opened his mouth to speak, then realized what he was seeing. Their twin candlelight spells showed at least eight draugr on shelves in front of them. And as the magelight orb glided out into the former darkness, it revealed set after set after set of shelves behind, eventually stopping when it touched an iron-shod double door at the corridor's far end.

Even now, the draugr hadn't moved. They were resting in place. Waiting. Yngva could feel their presence in the air. They wouldn't let her by peacefully.

"I'm open to suggestions," Divayth whispered.

Yngva gave him a brief, darkly amused glance—and drew her Daedric sword. It was time.

They advanced into the corridor side by side. Immediately, the first four draugr stirred from their unliving slumber, their hollow eyes lighting up with a bluish magical glow. And the moment they woke, they began to climb out from their shelves. Divayth readied a fire spell and began aiming at the ones on the left. Yngva sped up her pace and met the ones on the right.

While flames began to flash in the corner of her vision, she brought her sword into a ready stance. The nearest draugr was from the lower shelf, coming up to its feet with a mace in hand. As Yngva came into range, she swung her sword outward in an uncoiling horizontal cut, expecting to catch the undead creature by the neck.

She never felt quite felt the impact. Her sword made its cut with only the barest resistance. The light in the draugr's eyes instantly went out. A moment later, the withered body slumped back onto the ground, and its head tumbled and rolled away from its shoulders.

That left the draugr from the upper shelf. It was already standing with a battle-axe in its hands, readying a sideways attack of its own. Yngva lunged in with her free hand outstretched, and just as the swing began, she caught the haft of the axe by the shoulder. With the other hand, she drove her weapon down into the gap under the draugr's helmet. Its eyes didn't extinguish until she tore the blade back out.

Before moving on, she glanced at Divayth. He was standing over two blackened, smoldering draugr corpses. The thought occurred to Yngva that this corridor might fill with smoke if they weren't careful.

But there was no time to stop and think again. More draugr were rising from their resting places just ahead. And this time, there would be no meeting them before they readied themselves. They were already ready.

Yngva shouted to Divayth, "You might want to conjure something!"

"Oh, sure, let me just use my second pool of magicka on that," Divayth shouted back. Typical.

A big draugr in a horned helmet was approaching Yngva with a greatsword in hand. She feinted a step in, then stepped right back as the sword swung past her, and returned with her own sword down on the draugr's wrists. Her blade chopped the draugr's right hand clean off and got halfway through the second. She pulled it free and finished the creature with a deft stab up under its chin.

Across the corridor, Divayth was backpedaling slowly and bathing two draugr with jets of flame. He seemed to have that under control.

Suddenly, something hit Yngva. An unstoppable force slammed into the back of her helmet. She staggered forwards dizzily, struggling to right herself. Her vision was blurry and darkened. But she managed to force herself to focus—focus on her left hand—and up came a restoration aura. She poured magicka feverishly into herself while stepping backward like Divayth.

The source had been a draugr with a mace and shield. It was coming at her alongside one with a one-handed axe. More were behind them. More pairs of glowing blue eyes in the darkness, shifting upward and downward with every step closer.

The moment Yngva's head was clear, she switched to a flame spell and sent a brief jet into the crowd, just enough to set their dry flesh alight. Then she moved leftward for the draugr with the axe. No shield. That made it easier.

The draugr with the mace tried to step in and attack again. Yngva grabbed the axe draugr by the breastplate and dragged its snarling face to her right. She got an up-close view of the creature's eye sockets going dark as the iron mace crunched into the back of its skull. Then she shoved the inert body into the mace draugr's front, and used the respite to deal with the next draugr coming at her.

Divayth must have run out of magicka. He had stepped back from the fight, and there were three half-destroyed draugr still trying to chase him, their bodies still burning bright orange and disintegrating from inside. Perhaps he was taking a moment to drink one of the potions they'd brought. But they would be on the Chimer before the fire took them. So Yngva stepped in again.

It was effortless, compared to the others. Three quick strikes to the draugr's backs, and they each fell one by one, her blade cleaving through spines and ribs like they were nothing. They hadn't even been watching her.

But there was no time to savor Divayth's reaction. As she turned back around, Yngva realized that every single one of the draugr in the corridor was now standing. The one with the mace and shield had pushed away the body against it, and now was the closest nearby of any undead still standing, walking towards the duo with surprising speed. But behind it were nearly a dozen more draugr still. A dozen, versus a duo.

"Back to the stairs," Yngva said, before turning and running for the start of the corridor. She had no intention of climbing them now. They were a bottleneck for the draugr, something to reduce their numbers. Divayth seemed to get the idea, because he began running too.

But as she ran, something bit painfully hard into the back of her left thigh. She shouted in pain, tried to keep running, but her leg wouldn't listen. Something had happened. Instinctually, she reached down to feel what it was. A rigid wooden arrow shaft was sticking out of her leg, creating a patch of warm wetness on her clothes.

The Nord girl didn't even give herself a chance to think it over. She gripped the wooden shaft and yanked with all her strength. Pain exploded through her leg. She almost screamed. But her restoration aura was still there, and she immediately began patching the wound with a healing spell as she limped onward.

Suddenly, seemingly straight down her ear, Divayth's voice shouted, "NO!"

When Yngva turned around, the Chimer had tackled the mace-wielding draugr within arm's reach of her. It had been about to strike her. There was no time. Still no time. Too many were coming. He was going to get himself killed. By the archers in the back, if not by the blades in the front.

Before the mace draugr could finish reacting to the unexpected tackle, Yngva grabbed the rim of its shield in her free hand, pulled towards herself, and plunged her sword up under its now-exposed shield arm. It was the only attack she could think of that wouldn't risk hitting Divayth by accident.

"Get back," Yngva repeated, putting herself in front of Divayth, putting herself in the path of the oncoming crowd. She counted four draugr in the first row. Four, with swords and axes and shields. At least the ones with bows wouldn't be able to hurt her with these in the way.

Then something new happened. The leftmost draugr, one with a sword but no shield, raised its hand and let loose a stream of brilliant blue-white magic. It was out of nowhere. It took Yngva an instant too long to realize she was being hit with a frost spell. The painful chill began to set in immediately.

But just as quickly as it had started, the destruction spell stopped again, with a concussive shimmering thud of discharged energy. Divayth had stepped past her left side and knocked the draugr to its knees with some kind of whitish wave. Whatever school of magic that had been from, it had worked.

The other three were approaching melee range. A mace, a sword and shield, and a war axe. Yngva began to take them on.

The war axe draugr was on the far right, with no one to guard its flank. She darted past the others—a sword scraped across her chest, but slid straight off the steel plates under the leather—and lunged straight at the draugr's neck with her blade. It was more of a pushing slice than a proper swing. But by the time she got up to the hilt guard against the draugr's collar, she'd cut through almost half of the thing's neck. Its eyes went out like all the others.

That left the sword and shield right against her front. Its shield was in entirely the wrong place, trying to defend from a sword strike that wasn't coming. Its sword posed more of a danger, but Yngva wrapped her free arm underneath the draugr's shield arm, her back to the undead's front, and push-pulled with bent knees. Her raw strength won out. She threw the draugr straight over her shoulder onto the ground in front of her, causing it to drop its shield on the way.

An arrow sailed past her and struck the front wall of the corridor. She'd exposed herself again. She had to keep moving.

Divayth was bathing the frost-magic draugr in a stream of fire, as if in some poetic revenge. The mace draugr had begun walking towards him, but Yngva swept her sword out and took its head clean off, just like the first one off the shelves. Then she turned back and plunged her blade into the fallen draugr's chest, just above the coverage of its iron breastplate—once, twice, three times, until its eyes too went dark.

More draugr were ahead. Seven more, Yngva counted, by the pairs of eyes in the dark. Her muscles were burning, her heart was pounding, but it didn't matter. The thrill of real combat was running hot in her veins for the first time. She was fighting these enemies to the death. And she was winning. And it felt good.

She refreshed her candlelight spell. It wasn't giving enough light for her to see what the last seven draugr were wielding, but at least one had a bow. Hanging back and waiting was no longer an option.

Another arrow came zipping out of the darkness, and another after that. But Yngva was already moving. She dove down to the ground, grabbed the fallen draugr's shield, and rolled into a crouch with it in front of her.

"Hey," she called over to Divayth. "Need a minute?"

"Let's move," the Chimer called back.

That was all the encouragement Yngva needed. She took off at a run.

More arrows came her way. One glanced off her right pauldron. Another thudded straight into the shield, the arrowhead poking out the back in front of her face. But she kept her legs pumping as fast as they would go, and only at the last second, lowered the shield to see whom she was fighting.

There were three draugr in front with bows. She smashed into the rightmost one with the boss of her shield, sending it staggering back a couple paces. Then she turned and chopped into the middle one's belly, finishing it off with an upward cut to its neck as it began to fall. The leftmost sent an arrow at her from barely an arm's length away, but her shield was ready, and she blocked it effortlessly. A moment later, a firebolt whooshed through the air and burst against the left archer's side, sending it reeling.

Yngva came around and delivered a savage punch to the right archer's face with the rim of her shield, just as it was standing up. But in a moment that caught her totally by surprise, her shield was the thing that cracked. The old wood failed under the strain, and the metal rim popped off of some of the planks. She threw the shield aside and lunged in, grabbing the draugr by the lower edge of the breastplate, and plunging her sword up under its left arm. That ended it.

But with the three archers dispatched, four more were coming. If these were living creatures, they might have thought to try surrendering or fleeing by now. But they weren't, and they would fight to the bitter end.

To Yngva's continuing surprise, she realized that one of the draugr approaching her now was wielding a longsword made out of ebony metal. Despite everything, despite the danger she was in, the first thought that entered her mind was: she wanted it.

Another firebolt flew in past her and struck the leftmost draugr in the face. She started on the right once again—her opponent here had a great, massive war hammer that looked like it could cave in a skull and helmet in one swing. But that made the draugr slow to move, slow to react. Yngva blasted the ones to her left with another jet of flame to distract them, and at the same time, moved in with an upwards stab at the hammer draugr. It responded with a downward parry of its haft, but Yngva simply lunged farther forward and let the haft slide down her metal-clad forearm. Her blade buried itself deep in the draugr's chest, punching up into the ribcage from below. When she tore it free, bits of undead flesh went flying. That was one dealt with.

The draugr with the flaming face, and the one beside it, were both charging straight at Divayth. He kept up a steady stream of fire spells, but those were all his problem now. Yngva was left staring down the draugr with the ebony longsword. They entered combat stances and began to circle around each other, waiting for an opening.

This one was going to be tough. She could already tell. It was just a matter of what to expect.

"Fus!"

A bluish wave of energy rolled out from the draugr's lips, seemingly conjured by its undead voice—yes. That was a shout. It had just used a shout on her.

She had no time to react. No time to put up a ward or anything else. The energy hit her like a great forceful wave from the ocean. Her stance collapsed. She almost fell down on one knee. But she kept her eye on her opponent, tried to prepare—

There was no preparing. The draugr was coming down on her with a devastating downward chop, and her sword didn't make it in time to parry. The blade sheared straight through the leather between her bracer's steel plates, through cloth, through skin and flesh. She cried out in pain as the metal edge dragged down her arm, slicing deep into vital structures on the way. Her sword fell to the floor.

Everything went fast, too fast to understand. Yngva reached out with her uninjured arm and grabbed the ebony longsword by the hilt before it could pull away, then came up and slammed her injured arm's elbow into the draugr's wrists. At the same time, the draugr doubled forward and slammed into her, shaking off her grip. The longsword fell out of both their grasps, clattering on the floor off to the side.

This draugr was bigger and stronger than her. And she was bleeding badly. She began to cast a healing spell as she stood back up, watching the creature for its next move.

Her spell barely even started. The draugr charged right into her again, and this time didn't push her away. It grabbed her shoulders and pushed her far, far off balance, sending her sprawling on the stone floor.

And it was on top of her. Reaching its cold dry hands down to her neck, taking hold and squeezing her throat. She couldn't breathe. She was being strangled.

Yngva had only seconds to act. She grabbed onto the draugr's wrists, trying to reduce the pressure. Nothing. She tried to bring up her feet to kick the draugr off, but it dropped a knee on top of her thighs, pinning them down too. Her lungs were burning. No air.

Reluctantly, as swiftly as she could, she reached down with her left hand to behind her back. Her hand closed around the leather-wrapped handle.

She would live.

In a single, lightning motion, Yngva drew Hakind's steel dagger, and plunged the point down into the draugr's neck. She twisted it free, and stabbed again and again, ignoring the draugr's struggles, ignoring her own pain, gasping for breath as soon as the grip on her neck began to slacken. With one more furious stab, the draugr finally fell off of her and landed atop her front, its eyes extinguished forever.

Yngva left the dagger where it was, refreshed her candlelight, and resumed casting a healing spell as she searched for her sword. It was easy to find. The blade was glowing red on the floor. The moment she'd picked the weapon up, she turned back to the front of the hall, ready to aid Divayth once again.

For a split second, she expected to see the Chimer flat on the floor, lifeless in a puddle of blood, with the draugr still standing over his corpse. But he was standing upright, dousing the last of his undead assailants in a stream of fire from both hands. While Yngva finished her healing spell, she got to watch as the draugr collapsed into a pile of burnt flesh and bone.

The fight was over.

At least in this room. She had no idea how big the ruin was. But they'd faced a draugr force at ten-to-one numbers, and they'd won.

With the aid of Hakind's dagger, too. She'd used it exactly as Jarl Idrun had suggested. It almost made her laugh.

"Nice work," she called down the corridor. "Are you alright?"

Divayth immediately came running up to her, refreshing his own candlelight on the way. His brow was furrowed in concern. "I'd ask you that," he answered breathlessly. "I'm sorry. I heard you getting hurt, but I couldn't come help, the draugr were almost on top of me, and I was… I…"

Yngva held up a hand. "It's fine. I made it. Just … as long as you're here too."

Her heartbeat had yet to slow down. She'd never had energy running through her like this. It was this insane mix of terror and fury and sheer deadly focus, and it was the most exciting thing she'd ever felt.

No wonder her parents had been in this line of work. She wondered if this love for battle was simply in her blood.

Then Divayth completely interrupted her thoughts by reaching out and grabbing her by the shoulder. He didn't really do anything. He just gave it a brief, affirming shake, then nodded and moved ahead past her.

That was probably the Divayth version of a comforting hug. Yngva was fine with it.

At the end of the corridor, the double doors awaited. The Nord girl considered her options again—yes, there was a good chance that more danger awaited beyond them, but no, she wasn't going to let it stop her. She walked up to them and laid one hand on the right door handle.

"You take the other one," she said over her shoulder.

Divayth obligingly joined her and grasped the other door handle. "This could be a trap," he said.

"This entire place is a trap."

"I guess."

They pushed on the doors at nearly the same time. And nothing stopped them. Whatever latch held these doors together was in no way connected to a lock. Just like that, the doors swung wide open, and the room on the other side was fully exposed.

Yngva had barely enough time to jump back. As the doors swung open, half a dozen gigantic curved blades shot out of the hinges and whipped forwards. One of them clipped her leg, bouncing off the plating of her greave, sending her staggering back onto one knee. And then just like that, as soon as it had started, it was over. The blades retracted again like nothing had happened.

She glanced to Divayth. He was standing a couple feet behind her, an irritated look on his face. No injuries.

"See, I told you," the Chimer said.

Yngva's heart was practically about to burst, it was hammering so fast. But she still picked herself up and forced herself to nod. "Yes, yes, you did."

But even after that trap had sprung, the doors were wide open. Yngva very gingerly stepped forwards, renewing her candlelight once more, as she examined the room on the other side.

It was actually quite small. A single square room, seemingly a dead end, with a ceiling reinforced by arches down to each corner in an X shape. Each wall was adorned with a heavy stone tablet covered in engraved text. Yngva couldn't read it—it was in the dragon tongue.

Besides that, there was a large, ornate wooden chest in the middle of the room, and behind it, a waist-high iron pedestal with a single round object on top. The object looked very strange. It was perfectly spherical, about six inches wide, and made of a strange, iridescent blue stone. Even with only the candlelight spells to illuminate the room, the object seemed perfectly well lit.

"Hold on," Divayth said. "I can handle this."

Before Yngva could ask what he meant, the Chimer raised both hands and lit up an orange spell aura in each. The latch on the chest popped open, and a moment later, the lid began to slowly lift, revealing the contents inside. No more traps went off.

He nodded contently. "There. It's all yours.'

Yngva smiled briefly at him, then began walking into the room. It was deathly quiet in here. She felt like there was some extra trap waiting to be sprung, but it wasn't happening. She said, "I don't know how to read dragon speak. Do you?"

"No." As Divayth walked in alongside her, he unslung his backpack once more. "But I came prepared for this. Hold on."

With that, he pulled out a couple of wooden containers, and Yngva recognized them both instantly. One was a scroll case, currently filled with blank sheets of paper. The other was a rigid container for charcoal sticks. He was going to produce a rubbing of the tablets.

In the meantime, Yngva came up to the chest and knelt down in front of it, wiping her sword clean before sheathing it. Everything inside was wrapped up in thick, grayish cloth, dried out and brittle with age.

She picked up the topmost object inside, something long and heavy and rigid, and began unwrapping it. The cloth fell away almost instantly. And just as quickly, she recognized what she was holding.

But it wasn't a Nord artifact. It wasn't something from the dragons. It wasn't even Falmer.

She asked, even though she didn't have to: "What in Oblivion is this?"

It was a Dwemer item. The metal would have been recognizable at the slightest glance. She was holding a long, slender rod with a handle and a head, rather like a scepter. The handle was wrapped in dark brown leather, and the head was capped with an opaque red crystal. The body was covered in immaculately embossed designs, all made of straight lines and right angles.

Slowly, she set it aside and began to look through the rest of the treasure. The next item was a Dwemer metal spyglass, just like the one in her parents' bedroom. After that was some sort of gyroscopic machine, with a red inner spherical core rotating under its own volition. And so it went, on and on, one random Dwemer artifact after another. She tried her best to identify them, but they were hopelessly beyond her. They were mysteries.

Eventually, Divayth finished his rubbings, rolled up the papers for the scroll case, and turned back to Yngva. He paused at the sight of the items laid out on the floor. "... That doesn't look like a Nord treasure haul."

"I guess Kelthenez didn't teach you that much of his craft," Yngva replied, before she could restrain herself.

"We'll… want to summon him to look at these, I suppose." The Chimer scratched his head. "I'm guessing this means the blue stone is what we came for. I doubt the High King of Skyrim would've sent us all this way for some Dwemer junk. Your people have made it very clear that they don't care for that."

"Also, it's not worth the secrecy," Yngva said, pushing herself slowly to her feet. "Want to see what traps go off when I move the blue stone?"

"It probably doesn't need a trap. It'll probably turn you inside-out and suck you into a hole in Oblivion and leave you in a cosmic ditch forever."

Yngva had had enough of trying to think of possible dangers. Before she could even finish her current thought, she stepped forward, reached out and swiped the stone off its pedestal.

Nothing happened.

Divayth shouted in a wordless exclamation, then relaxed when he realized there wasn't a trap after all. "Yngva! What—you just—you scared the soul out of me!"

The Nord girl smiled sweetly and tucked the stone in her largest belt pouch, renewing her candlelight one last time with her free hand. The stone was too large for her to close the pouch over it, but she imagined she'd want both hands free on the climb back up. "I wanted to get it over with. Shall we move on?"

"Crazy…" Divayth shook his head and muttered a few more words under his breath. "Let's get out of here. We can just come back down with a bigger bag for the Dwemer junk."

And with that, they started on their way back out. The entire corridor's worth of dead draugr lay between them and the stairs to the surface. Yngva found it was hard not to feel a little satisfied, walking past them all. If they'd been actual living people, she might've felt rather guilty, having had to cut them down to get through. But their lives had ended long ago. She'd gotten to enjoy killing them without worrying about their own end of things.

But as she walked on, another thought came to her. She wondered what Divayth would have said if she'd described that satisfaction out loud. Hadn't the Nord race gotten plenty of practice with this already? Slaughtering enemies in droves, and then excusing themselves for it because their enemies weren't real people?

"I'm glad you came with me for this," Yngva said, breaking the silence as they approached the stairs. "I wouldn't have wanted to do this alone."

"Quite," Divayth replied flatly.

At the bottom of the staircase, she gave the rope a tug to make sure it was still secured at the top. From here, she could see all the way up to the surface, where the doors had been pulled open, giving her a window all the way up to the outside world beyond—

Her heart froze.

Someone was looking down at them.

Their face was hidden under a dark hood. But she knew those robes. She'd read about them a hundred times. A final undead guardian of the vault, here to make sure they never saw the surface.

She shouted, "It's a dragon priest!"

Divayth jumped in front of her, raising his hand and shooting a lightning bolt all the way up the stairs. It struck the figure right in the face, causing it to fall out of sight. The elf waved for Yngva to climb up. "Move! Move!"

Yngva was already on it. She ignored the rope, using the steps ahead of her as handholds, climbing faster than she'd ever climbed in her life. All sensation faded away. She had to get to the surface before that thing recovered, or they were dead.

She pulled herself up through the broken doors just in time to see the dragon priest rising to its feet in front of her. It was holding a plain wooden staff in its gloved hands, bringing the weapon up in a fighting stance.

Something was wrong with its face. The top half was obscured by a gray mask of some kind, but the bottom half was… she couldn't tell what the bottom half was. This wasn't undead. This was worse.

But the creature was only just standing up, and Yngva was already moving. She burst forth out of the doors of the ruin, leaping off the stone platform, aiming a kick at the undead creature's abdomen.

It moved faster than she could follow. One moment, the creature was there, and the next, it had grabbed her leg and thrown her to a tumbling landing on the ground. Dirt and grass slammed into her face, into her chest. The blue stone fell from her belt pouch and landed somewhere behind her.

This thing hadn't been inside the ruin. It had been stalking them. It had waited for them to come out.

Yngva rolled back to her feet and drew her Daedric sword on the way. The creature was holding its ground, watching her. How had it known she was here? What had it done?

The answer came to her like another strike to the face. Her shock instantly gave way to sheer burning rage.

"It was you," she spat. "You killed my parents."

She stepped straight in with her sword ready to strike. The chance for vengeance was now. Nothing was going to stop her.

The creature swung its staff low, aiming for her front leg. Yngva withdrew it and pushed the staff aside with her blade, before lunging back in with a ferocious stab for the creature's belly. But it swept its weapon upward and parried her strike with the butt end, before spinning it in a full arc and coming down at Yngva's shoulder. Instantly, she was on the defense.

This enemy was good. It was very good. Yngva's victory would be a sweet one.

At that moment, her candlelight spell went out. She didn't care to refresh it.

She twisted out of the way of the strike, parrying again with her sword overhead, before lashing out at the creature's back. It brought its staff around, hands far apart, and blocked the blow—only for her metal edge to get stuck halfway through the wood. Steel would have bounced off. Daedric metal was better.

Yngva used the opportunity to slam her shoulder into the creature's side, grabbing onto its upper arm with her free hand, threatening to force the blade into its flank anyway. It backpedaled and began to pull away, planting a foot on her thigh and using it to shove back.

Her sword was going to come out of her hand if the creature pulled anymore. She grabbed the staff again, lower down, and wrenched on the blade with all her might.

There was a terrible crack, and the staff broke cleanly in two. Her sword was still in her hand.

But the creature was undeterred. It wielded the two halves of its staff like twin cudgels, attacking with both at the same time. Yngva stepped back and waited for the strikes to pass by, then returned with a downward cut of her sword. The creature parried it effortlessly—and a sudden pain shot through her left leg. It had struck her on the thigh, just above the knee, where it had shoved her a moment before.

She ignored it and grabbed at the creature's robes again, aiming to put her sword in its neck. But the creature struck her forearm before it could get close, impacting even through the bracer, keeping her sword pinned with the other hand. It wasn't letting her move in.

Suddenly, a firebolt flew through the air and burst against the creature's shoulder. Divayth was standing in front of the stone platform with one hand raised. He was preparing another firebolt already.

The creature twisted aside—its shoulder was barely even singed—and threw its left-hand staff piece straight at Divayth. It spun once in the air, and then the butt end hit him in the forehead, knocking him down on his back.

Yngva saw her chance. The creature's back was exposed. She brought her sword in an upward hammer-grip thrust, aiming to go underneath the ribs. It would be a swift kill. Even if Divayth had only been a distraction, she needed nothing more.

Her strike hit only air. The creature whirled around and grabbed Yngva's sword wrist in a crushing grip, forcing the weapon up past its head. Its broken staff lashed out again, and Yngva wasn't fast enough to block it. The wood smashed into her lightly-armored abdomen, forcing the air out of her lungs, making her gasp—and then the creature ducked under her sword arm, stepping behind her, twisting it behind her back.

The pressure forced her down onto one knee. She was about to twist aside, about to pull the creature's hand down with her, and then the next strike came. It hit her right on the elbow. She felt the bone break. Felt her arm bend in a way it wasn't supposed to, felt her sword drop from her hand. Heard herself scream in pain.

The next strike was aimed at her head.

It was like an explosion inside her skull. She landed on her back, barely able to see, barely able to move. Everything was fuzzy and wrong. She saw the creature standing above her, picking up a bright blue something from the ground. But then a bolt of lightning hit its chest, and it staggered back, turning and running away out of sight.

Everything was fuzzy. Everything hurt.

She'd failed. Her chance was past. That was the only thought that made it into her mind. All else was drifting away.

But then, seemingly an instant later, a voice was speaking to her.

"Yngva," it said. "Yngva. Stay awake. Hey! Keep your eyes open—look at me!" Magic was flowing into her, suffusing her body. Her sword arm slowly but surely knit itself back into its proper position. The pain ebbed away from her head, from her belly, from everything. Her vision cleared.

Divayth was looking down at her face, casting a healing spell straight into her chest. "Yngva. Can you hear my voice?" "I can hear you," Yngva said slowly. "I'm … I'm sorry, I tried to get it…"

He waved it off. "No, no, you were amazing. That was… gods, I can't believe this. Forget about the treasure. You're alive, that thing is gone, we're safe. Alright?" He was looking into her eyes again. "Yngva. We're safe."

"Would've been… too much to ask to hold onto the stone?"

The Nord girl pushed herself up onto her elbows, giving Divayth a rueful smile. She wasn't looking forward to returning to Winterhold empty-handed. But what was she going to do instead?

Even that question went nowhere. She had a bigger one. That had to have been the thing that killed her parents. It had to. No one else would've known to come after them like this.

And yet it had just grabbed the treasure and run off. Divayth's lightning aside, that creature had been poised to slay Yngva on the spot. It would have killed her a few times over, if it had brought a more lethal weapon than a staff. But she was alive, and Divayth was alive, and the only thing it had taken was the strange blue stone.

Yngva had no idea what was going on.


	27. The Dwemer Implication

Tirdas, 7:36 AM, 7th of Frostfall, 1E 173

Mzulft

"Where… have you… been?"

Those were the first words out of Dalzren's mouth. The Soul Fray was attacking her body now, impeding her coordination—but it was only anger that caused her to speak so slowly. She would have stabbed a finger at the older Dwemer for emphasis, if her hands would still allow her to.

"Not here," Chief Designer Hizeft said, her voice devoid of guilt. "Based on your progress reports, you've been taking care of the device admirably. I haven't had any way to intervene."

Their meeting was taking place in the secret room. It hadn't been Dalzren's idea. Hizeft had sent that one junior designer to come get her. But she was concerned less with the place, and more with the time.

"All these weeks, and you only appear when I'm too damaged to work. Is that your only standard for me?"

Dalzren had spent her night in the Hall of Healing, being pored over by the healers who wanted to restore her muscle functions. After a night of fitful rest, after more pointless examination than she cared to recount, she'd been eager to leave. She had never before been made to suffer the indignity of other grown adults undressing and dressing her, but with no command over her digits, Dalzren had no other option. It still felt shameful.

"I was aware of your contraction of Soul Fray, but I was hoping to deal with it when our device was more fully stocked." Hizeft gestured to the machinery by them. As always, only two out of the five shells around its exterior were closed. "I have the Specter out hunting for a third right now, but it'll be a long time before we have them all."

Immediately, Dalzren realized what this conversation was going to look like. Hizeft's reply marked the very first time she had ever mentioned the Specter's actions. More likely than not, that wouldn't be the only revelation today, nor the greatest.

The thought did nothing to dull her anger.

"I'm not concerned for myself," she said, barely maintaining a steady voice. "I'm concerned for my son. The last time I saw him, he was beside himself. I wanted to spare him from the sorrow and, and sheer hopelessness that the knowledge of my condition would inflict. And because you took so long to stop for me, he will have to live out these months with the weight of my world on his shoulders."

Even now, Hizeft betrayed no expression. "It was never my intention to cause trouble in your home. But if we can make this better now, perhaps you can reassure him that you're here to stay."

It was bizarre, Dalzren thought, that they were talking about her own living or dying only in terms of the emotional effect of her son's anticipation. There were so many other, more obvious consequences. But this was the one that Dalzren had walked in here filled with fury against.

"I would've preferred us to make it better yesterday. The machine hasn't improved its performance in some critical way since then."

"And I would have preferred to try this even later on, when more Elder Scrolls have been collected. But I see now that we can't wait." As Hizeft spoke, she began walking in a slow circle around the five-armed machine, pausing in between the two closed shells of green crystal. "So I'm taking incredibly valuable time out of my morning to assist you in activating the Implier."

Dalzren paused. She'd been right—more revelations were coming. She asked, "Is that the name of the device?"

Hizeft nodded. "It's the most apt name I have for it. Due to the need for secrecy, I haven't wanted to tell you everything of how this device works. For your purposes, creating lenses and other components of the right specifications, it hasn't been necessary. But if you're going to attempt to use it yourself, you'll need to understand its underlying principle."

This conversation had begun as a confrontation, and nothing more. But now, the younger Dwemer's anger was giving way to the feeling that had plagued her race since its creation: curiosity. All thoughts about poor timing and need-to-know secrets drifted away. Even the fact that she couldn't feel her hands at that very moment was trivial in comparison. She wanted to hear more.

"Go on."

And so, with the secret machine standing between them, Hizeft obliged.

"Every Elder Scroll contains a sliver of predetermined information about the course of reality. Within its confines, the past, present and future are one. Generally, this information is about some vital turn of fate. Some prophesied hero, some grand rise to power, some desperate battle. And as a result, no matter what we do to try to exploit the contents of a given Elder Scroll, it's only relevant to a random cryptic idea that may not come to fruition for centuries.

"But while the Elder Scrolls are focused on certain paths in fate, there are countless others in existence. In fact, if one focuses in enough, every single event that has ever taken place, every single event that ever will take place, is tied to fate somehow. This machine is designed to read multiple Elder Scrolls at the same time, and by using each scroll's contents, allow the reader to focus on the unspoken events between them. It will give us the power to read the paths that are only implied, not dictated, by the Elder Scrolls. And the more scrolls we have, the more detailed the paths can be.

"At this point, you may be wondering why I would elect to oversee the construction of a device like this in the first place. But that's its own secret to discuss." Hizeft offered a brief smile. "For your purposes, that's not necessary. You need only understand what the Implier is designed to do."

Dalzren supposed she should have known better than to expect every secret about this machine to be spilled in a single conversation. But just as her rising questions had largely replaced her anger with curiosity, Hizeft's answers replaced her curiosity with confusion.

"If this Implier operates the way you describe, it will let us observe the future with an awareness that none can rival. And that's… excellent. But what makes you think that it will help me with my Soul Fray?"

"Reading Elder Scrolls isn't quite so simple. When you do it, you become enmeshed in the fate you read." The older Dwemer paused. "By the way, can you tell that I've been taking notes from Angmthanz? They'd never teach you this sort of thing in a hundred years of Design work. The point is, you'll have a limited control over what you experience. Don't expect what you find to look at all literal or even sensible. But look for your own metaphorical presence, and see if you can secure your soul."

Dalzren gave her a dubious look.

Hizeft responded with a look of sympathy. "I'm sorry that my instructions are so vague. This is one of the reasons that I wanted to wait longer. All of my information is based on Angmthanz's first and only test of the Implier, immediately after the first two Elder Scrolls were installed. But if this needs to be done today, then it appears we have no choice."

This answer addressed a concern Dalzren hadn't quite realized she'd been beginning to feel. While she and Hizeft were both nominally working for the common good of Mzulft, she was also Hizeft's subordinate—and as today's conversation demonstrated, they had differing, self-serving personal motives. Dalzren had been starting to suspect that she was being used to test the machine for the first time, to make sure it wouldn't have some catastrophically adverse effect on the operator.

"So be it," she replied, before focusing on the machine in front of her. She'd spent a long time working on the pieces of this assembly. Using it had been such a distant promise that it had felt like nothing. Now, her confusion persisted. "How do I activate the Implier?"

"I'll activate it. Once I do, all you have to do yourself is look at the aura it creates. You may want to sit down first."

With that, Hizeft opened the control panel on the Implier's central structure, and began pressing buttons. Immediately, the machine began to hum to life. First, the internal actuators ran through a brief testing sequence, letting off hisses of steam as they warmed up. Then the optic sphere, the one dotted with lenses like a miniature from the oculory, engaged with its bearings and began to rotate through predetermined positions. Then the secondary lens armatures unfolded from their positions and began to do the same, one set of mechanical components at a time.

Dalzren, meanwhile, obediently seated herself right there on the floor.

For another thirty seconds or so, the machine ran through its initial calibrations, preparing for whatever process was to come. Then the Chief Designer pressed one more button. The moment she did, she stepped back from the machine, turned to face away from it, and folded her arms.

At first, there was a pause—a brief lull in the Implier's activity, as its preparations finally came to an end. Then, for a fraction of a second, the two closed crystal shells hummed to life, glowing from within with accumulated magicka. The moment Dalzren realized what she was looking at, her eyes were sent out of focus by a brilliant white light. It was coming straight out of the shells, a cascade of white beams, several coming from each, shining all the way up to the ceiling.

Now came the part that Dalzren had worked so hard on. She found herself rather looking forward to seeing it in action.

So as she watched, the secondary lenses rotated into position, automatically positioning themselves to intercept each ray of light as it exited the shells. The lenses bent and narrowed the rays in order to shine them straight at predetermined positions on the central orb. Then, the orb began rotating through its own positions, shifting on one axis after another, until eventually its lenses lined up with all the incoming rays.

A total blanket of pure light flooded Dalzren's vision. Her ears rang with a piercing, aetherial shriek of discharging energy. For a tiny fraction of a second, she glimpsed the central orb projecting its light straight upward, the rays blossoming and bending into a spiraling geometric pattern.

Hizeft had told her to expect no help from her sense of logic. Now that would be put to the test.

As the omnipresent light persisted, Dalzren's flesh faded away from the outside in—not like the painful deformation of the Soul Fray, but an effortless motion, like casting off a cloak of billowing silk. Her senses existed in an empty void of whiteness and blackness both.

She drifted in silence.

There was no voice to guide her here. No codex to consult, no knowledge to draw upon. There was only her fundamental self, and in this place, her self was only a wandering series of fleeting thoughts.

Angles of activity oriented themselves. An arcane pentagon traced itself in the nothingness, black against the white, or white against the black. Its upper and upper-right points glowed with light and shadow, riven with afterimages of geometric maps. But the others were empty. Their absence ached, like moving with only one limb working.

The whiteness and blackness gave way to a stream of color and noise. An incomprehensible deluge, a rainbow of blindingly vivid images of unknown objects, a thousand past and future tongues babbling a million words. Dalzren's focus fixed on the very center of the stream, watching it pour past her like a shower of rain from above.

She was a thought in the chaos. None of this concerned her. She desired to observe nothing of the world, desired to control nothing of its path. All that mattered was her own self. She ignored everything else, she had to ignore everything. Finding herself couldn't have been such a great voyage.

The shower shattered away into fragments, into darkness. Her vision tilted downwards, reorienting herself, and into view came a tangled web of Dwemer-made pipes and beams. It encompassed her in every possible direction. Gears turned, steam hissed. The steam curled outward into the periphery, blooming into transient images like flowers, then dissipating away. A bell began ringing, high and shrill, again and again, like an alarm. The machinery continued running.

She watched it for a time.

So this was what Elder Scrolls did to convey information. Nothing had to make sense. That was comforting to know. It was important.

She needed to find herself. This was too much scale. There was too much to sort.

So she focused on the machinery, tried to do away with what things didn't matter. The ringing of the bell cut out suddenly. She was floating in space.

There was no sound.

In front of her was a wheel, for spinning thread. It was spinning and spinning, making golden metal cables that piled in an ever-growing coil. It made a thrumming sound, on and on, strange and foreign. Pinpricks began to eat away at her vision. The sight was too black. She could hear the rattling of the pinpricks and it was painful.

She closed her vision. Warm lips smiled at her. But when she reached out to touch them, they yawned impossibly wide, and vanished.

None of this mattered. She needed only to find herself. The grand explorations could wait.

Her vision tilted again. Now she was looking at a long, slender cable, tied to others with smooth joining segments of solid metal. But she realized, with sudden horror, that the cable was only so slender because it had frayed away at the knots. The broken fibers were floating aimlessly in the void, some still attached at the knots, some drifting away entirely. The cable was barely half the thickness of what it should have been. It was straining terribly under its own natural tension.

It was strange, looking at herself like this. But at some point, the vision was going to change again. This was her moment. This was the time to do something—but do what? So far, all she had done was observe. She hadn't tried to change anything.

Dalzren didn't know how to do this part.

She leaned forward, extended her tongue, and licked the thread. She tasted her own soul. And her saliva left itself on the frayed fibers, matting them down, gluing the metal back together. Perhaps it wouldn't last, but if it was a thread, this was what everyone did when running ends of thread through needles.

The joining pipes began to twist in opposing directions. The cable loosened, then tightened, then sat still.

It tasted good. She wondered if anyone else knew what souls tasted like. There was a dragon in Nord myth for that business, she thought.

Abruptly, her mind catapulted itself back out of the whiteness, out of the vision. Back into reality, back into the secret room in Mzulft. Her work was done.

The Dwemer opened her eyes. She lay flat on her back, her lower legs bent to one side. Immediately, she raised her hands in front of herself, and attempted to clench them into fists.

They did. It was slow, and they clenched with very little force, but they did.

Footsteps walked up to beside her. Hizeft held down a gloved hand for her to grasp. "Welcome back," the white-haired mer said, seemingly genuinely.

And now Dalzren was able to grab on properly. She couldn't hold on very tight, much to her irritation. The muscle simply didn't answer her enough. But she still took hold of Hizeft's bony hand through the glove, and pulled herself carefully up to her feet.

Beside them, the machine stood inert, as it had when they had begun. The rays of light were gone, and the lenses had retreated to their dormant positions. The process had completed.

Hizeft asked, "How do you feel?"

"Not bad," Dalzren answered automatically. "For future reference, I'll write down a log of my experience using your Implier. And I can, now that my hands are working again."

"You were unconscious for three minutes after the Implier finished its projection cycle. Are you sure you're well?"

Now Dalzren thought about it longer. Truth be told, she felt… odd, inside. Like her thought process was gliding around with an unnaturally pleasant lubrication. It stood to some ridiculous sort of reason, she supposed. She had just licked her own soul a moment ago. "I'm sure," she said, looking firmly into Hizeft's eyes for emphasis. Then she looked down at herself. "My grip strength seems lacking, still. And I have no idea how long this will last. Days, weeks, I can't say. I didn't really reverse any damage. I just prevented more from taking place, for now."

Hizeft smiled slightly. "I think that will be enough. All we need is time to obtain the remaining scrolls. If you've bought yourself time just now, then we have all the more reason to spend it wisely."

"Well… thank you for letting me use the Implier." That was enough in the way of heartfelt statements for now. Hizeft was still her boss, after all. Dalzren turned and put her hands on her hips, looking at the machine once more.

A few seconds went by. Then more seconds afterward. They dragged on and on. This had been quite a morning. She wasn't sure if she was meant to feel hope or something else. Seeing her soul so damaged had been genuinely unsettling. But at least she had intervened, in a way, for now.

Hizeft asked, "What are you thinking about?"

"Now?" Dalzren shrugged. "Mainly, what I'm going to tell Amalest when he comes home this evening."


	28. Spoils of War

The sunrise was a beautiful, piercing red on the edge of the horizon. It emerged over the mountaintops like a beast from the oceans, breaching upward through the crimson twilight glow, bathing the world in its radiance.

To Ceyrel, it was simply another pretty morning. She'd been outside with her dog, watching the sky, enjoying the cool wind. Enjoying the quiet.

It had been so loud lately. In her house, in all the other houses. There were all these new people, and they weren't leaving. Her father had said that even more might come in later. Ceyrel didn't know how. When she went to bed at night, she had other girls sleeping on the floor by her. They didn't like to talk. But they had to sleep somewhere. They wouldn't have anywhere for the new people to sleep.

The grown-ups kept talking. They were talking right now. She didn't like it. She stayed out here, where it was quiet.

The image peeled away into fragments. They scattered into the darkness.

A shadow of a deathly face stared through the abyss. A silhouette, an image made of a thousand glimpses of the marks it had made. Beautiful and terrible, powerful and broken. Filled with regret. Filled with rage. It reached out with ghostly fingers, trying despite its despair, searching for something to touch.

The blood fell in a dribbling, dying current, pouring and splashing on the ground below. It was still warm with another person's heat.

Emund awoke, and his day went on like any other.

Fredas, 6:56 PM, 24th of Frostfall, 1E 173

The Pale

He wasn't happy to be the one delivering the prize. In fact, he felt really rotten about it. But at this point, there wasn't much of a choice.

When he'd heard the report about the two adventurers from Snowhawk—the Nord and the Chimer, Yngva and Divayth—he'd expected a pretty uneventful time of it all. Sure, they would only see him as the Gray One, but they had no idea of the Gray One's reputation. Most people seemed not to.

And then he'd heard that sudden scream inside the ruin, gone to investigate, and taken a lightning bolt to the mouth for his trouble. Divayth, of course. The elven spellcaster.

As it turned out, his fancy dragon-priest-looking outfit didn't protect against shock magic, just fire and cold. As it also turned out, when he had it on, he looked like a dragon priest. Which he could've easily explained away with a single sentence, except that he hadn't been able to even feel his face for most of that fight. It was a perfect misfortune. Talking hadn't been an option.

But the real problem, he knew, was the Place. The moment that shock spell had hit him, it had seized control like a wolf seizing a rabbit's throat. Everything after that had been a blur. He had a vague, awful memory of thrashing against the violent thoughts, begging himself not to do any more harm, and his mind being too preoccupied to listen. But that was all.

Next thing he'd known, Emund had been five miles away with the blue stone tucked into his arm like a melon, running as swiftly as his legs could carry him. He'd considered returning to them, to try and give the stone back—but even without the Place telling him what to do, Emund didn't have a death wish.

And so now he was walking by himself through a snowy evergreen woodland, a lot like the one from Eastmarch. There was a narrow trail, more of a beaten-down path of dirt than any proper road, weaving through the woods, with big bronze nails hammered into the sides of trees to let him know he was still on it.

All by himself. It was actually a bit lonely.

He missed Gelther. Even when Emund had been blundering along with a bag on his head and a knife pressing into his back, at least he hadn't been alone. But this had been a mission of total stealth and secrecy.

Hylana and the others hadn't even given him a pack horse, just a magic ring to improve his carrying capacity. Which was probably unnecessary, because he'd never had that much on his person to start with. Not even a tent. He'd never had any experience even close to this, but they'd put their faith in him, and… now the Gray One was coming back with their wonderful prize, so maybe that worked out in the end.

His thoughts were interrupted by a noise ahead. A wolf's howl. Two of them, from different points, both very close by.

Emund drew his longsword and readied himself. His staff had been sundered in Eastmarch, but that had been the less lethal choice.

Three pale gray wolves raced into view, two on his front, one on his right. Most of the animals he'd encountered—foxes, elk, even bears—had wanted nothing to do with him. The Gray Cowl, he figured, doing its same weird magic that had scared Picker away. But these ones just wanted him dead. They were coming in fast, snarling with their pointy teeth all bared. They were big.

Maybe they were just really hungry. He might've been the only thing with a pulse to come by here lately.

Emund's thoughts drifted to the Place. The dark, welcoming shards. They knew him, and he knew them. They would work together to make sure he survived.

He dove for the one on the right, an instant before it could make its lunge. His sword made a single, deft slice down the side of its neck. That left it free for him to defend against the other two. He guided the blade past his own chest, and let it slide neatly into the open mouth of the nearer wolf, right in front of his face.

Pain seared into his leg. The last wolf had grabbed on with its teeth. Emund grunted in pain, yanked his sword free, and slammed his pommel into the wolf's skull before it could injure him further. He followed it up with another slice to the throat. His steel edge cut its way through fur, skin and veins all alike.

The Place receded again.

Emund looked around himself. There was blood all over the snow. The wolves were strewn about messily, all sprawled in unnatural motionless angles. But some of the blood was his, leaking slowly from his ankle, spreading out in a dark red puddle around his foot. The pain was throbbing, terribly wet, a dangerous if not lethal wound—but already, it was fading. He got to watch over the course of a single minute, as his bleeding slowed and stopped, and the gouges in his leg began to seal themselves back together.

This was why he was willing to wear dragon priest robes all around Skyrim. This, and the fact that he wasn't bothered at all by the cold.

If Emund were a different person, and if he were interested in making some extra coin, he would've stopped and taken the time to remove the pelts from these wolves. But he had to get back to the stronghold, and honestly, no one cared. He wiped his sword clean and returned it to its sheath.

As he did, it occurred to him that this was the first time he'd really killed something. He'd never had to deal with animals that way in Tvalistead, besides setting poison for skeevers a couple times. He hadn't even been involved in slaughtering or butchering livestock, being an innkeeper's son. Now he'd slain three wolves within seconds of realizing they were there.

It didn't feel very good. Doing it with a sword didn't help, he imagined. It felt less like the technique of hunting, and more like the technique of murder.

He waited until the pain had receded enough for him to feel comfortable walking again, then went in a large circle around the wolves' carcasses, making sure that his footprints wouldn't leave any blood in the snow. Then he continued on his way.

A couple miles later, Emund reached a tree whose bronze nail had been damaged. The whole right half of the head had been pried up by about forty-five degrees, exposing the point where the metal spike drove into the tree bark. That was the point at which to leave the trail. He turned and headed past the tree, exactly perpendicular to the path he'd been on, but now through totally unpaved woods.

This was the way back to the stronghold. If it were any more remote, it would've had to be on an actual mountaintop. And Emund bet the only reason they hadn't chosen that was because then they might have to deal with dragons.

He wondered what Hylana would have to say when he showed her the stone. Probably not much, unless he needed to know more for his next assignment. He would've liked it if they allowed him to be curious now and then. But it made sense enough why they didn't. If Emund had secrets that could affect the future of Skyrim, he wouldn't want to share them with friends to sate their curiosity.

Then he realized—wait, he did have secrets that could affect the future of Skyrim. His mission was affecting the future of Skyrim right now.

Eventually, the trees began to grow more sparse, separated by more and more flat open ground. This was the edge of the forest. Up ahead was an open clearing.

Emund didn't know how this had happened to begin with. There weren't any big hills or mountains nearby, it was just the same wintry forest as the rest of the southern Pale. Maybe once upon a time, there had been a wildfire here. Or maybe some long-ago Nords had decided to start felling trees right in the middle of the woods, nowhere near anyplace they could actually use it. There was no way for him to say. His superiors would certainly never tell him.

What he did know was that right in the midst of the woods, there was a farm. A wide, open field, with rows of tilled land within wooden fencing, with a farmhouse and a couple outbuildings. The farmhouse was staffed by a few Nords who, apparently, were being paid not to ask why random passersby kept using their barn for shelter. Going by everything else around here, Emund bet they were illiterate and had their tongues removed or something. Secrets were hard to keep.

Obviously, Emund had never actually visited the farmhouse, and he wasn't about to start now. He walked past fields of dormant crops, observing them quietly—some of the fence posts around the fields, he knew, were actually hollow, with fake wood rot holes leading to metal pipes down through the ground. That was how the stronghold got its fresh air. He wondered if anyone had ever actually noticed.

The barn was on the far side of the field. He quickened his pace. After all these long days, he was finally coming back. He'd missed it. The training, the reading, the regular meals that weren't made of chalk-flavored Dwemer food paste. Maybe they'd let him stay a while before the next mission. Maybe.

As always, the barn had a few animals in it, and as always, they weren't happy to see him. Emund trod carefully down the very center of the aisle, all the way to the back where the trapdoor was situated. He opened it with his foot and climbed on down into the dark cellar below.

It was very dark. No torches, no nothing. Emund would've cast a light spell if he knew one. Just so he wouldn't be totally blind, he left the upper trap door open for now—not really good practice, but he'd get it in a minute—and moved carefully through the shadowy cellar until he found the second door. The air was so musty down here. It smelled acrid and burnt. He couldn't wait to get to the bottom.

He clambered down the second ladder very quickly. The acrid smell only grew. He was still on the wrong side of the stronghold's big iron doors.

Then he reached the bottom of the ladder, and turned to look at the earthen enclosure. There was no need for him to unlock the iron doors. They were already wide open, giving a perfect view of the magelit corridor beyond.

The doors had been forced open. They were dented inward where the locking mechanism had been. The mechanism's outer pieces were missing.

And the corridor was filled with random debris, including a dozen big piles of white-gray ash.

Emund drew his longsword involuntarily. Only the Place was keeping him calm. His heart had just jumped seemingly out of his chest. He couldn't feel, couldn't think. But his legs carried him inside.

He called out, "Hello?"

No answer.

When he got close enough to examine the piles of ash, his stomach turned. They were the source of that acrid smell. Weapons and armor littered the floor around them. His fellow soldiers, the ones he'd never gotten to know as well as he'd wanted.

All turned to nothing but ash.

Emund called out again, louder this time: "Hello?"

Still no answer. He continued walking, exploring every possible room. There wasn't a single living person down here but him.

And as he moved, as he searched from one branch of the stronghold to the next, the feelings finally began to sink in. The Place couldn't hide them from him forever. The awful, chilling horror in his chest. The dizzying feeling of unreality, like this shouldn't have been happening at all.

Part of him wanted to believe that this had been an army at work. But if it had, he should have seen a whole lot more disturbance in the ground of the farm above. It would've had to be a very, very small group that attacked the stronghold.

Or just one person. Just one exceptionally deadly person. Like himself, now.

He tried to put that thought out of his mind. But all he could think of was what that Nord girl Yngva had said to him. "It was you. You killed my parents."

She'd been wrong, of course. Emund hadn't done that. But someone had.

And now the body count had just become much, much higher.

Eventually, he made it to the one room. The one place he had last visited before leaving, the one that probably mattered more than every other down here. Hylana's chambers. That one little room at the end of that one little corridor, all the way at the far end of the stronghold. Even from a distance, he could tell it had been breached. The reinforced door had been smashed open so hard that it had broken free of its hinges, now flat on the floor behind the arch.

One more pile of ash was on the floor, just outside the doorway. Emund stopped and stared. There was no way to recognize the body that the ash had once been. But he could have recognized Gelther's gear anywhere. His leather and steel armor, his gleaming longsword. They were scattered on the floor, half-buried in the ashes.

Emund sank to his knees. He wanted to say some kind of prayer. But he didn't know any for a fallen Nord warrior.

Gelther, the man-at-arms from Tvalistead. The one who'd dragged Emund out of the living nightmare of the Gray Cowl's curse, who'd given him something new to live for. He was dead now. He, and everyone else in his hidden fortress, all slain by some mystery enemy, down to the last man.

All slain, except for Emund himself. The one who'd had the good luck to not be in the stronghold when the attack had come.

"Shor," he began to whisper, resting his head on his hands, eyes shut tight. "Shor. Please grant this warrior Gelther… grant him…"  
Grant him what?  
"He fought bravely. He died… he died in battle. Bring him to Sovngarde. It's what he needs to..."

Emund stopped.

Dark, cold tendrils seeped over the edges of his mind. The Place wanted him. The Place wanted to answer. He left his mind begin to drift. Thoughts came all on their own.

More words left his mouth.

"Nocturnal. Give me strength. Give me the fury and the focus to avenge my fallen friend. Show me the way to my enemy's heart, and let my blade enter it. I will not fail you. I will prove my worthiness as the wearer of your Cowl. This I vow. For all lifetimes past, and all lifetimes to come, this I vow."

The tendrils slithered away in an instant, and his mind fell, weightless.

That hadn't been himself. He'd never even thought of praying to a Daedra. Even the one whose mask he was wearing. Why would he pray to the creator of his stolen artifact?

Emund shook it off. There was more to do here.

He stood back up slowly, turned to look at the open doorway, and stepped inside.

Hylana's chambers were an utter mess. More than any other place in the stronghold, they looked like they'd been ransacked. Books and other random items were strewn all over the floor. Shelves were empty, drawers were open. There were no ash piles in here, but there were many other things instead.

For a moment, Emund was confused about the lack of any ashes. But then he realized—Hylana wouldn't have hidden back in here. The honor of making a last stand had gone to Gelther. When the front doors had crashed open, Hylana must have tried to rally a defense of her stronghold. Now she was one of the anonymous ash piles out in the middle of everything.

That, or she'd just happened to be away from the farm entirely, but Emund wasn't counting on that. He didn't even plan to stay here longer than today. He'd have to find someplace else to go.

But none of that concerned what he was doing in this very moment. In this moment, he took it upon himself to search through the room, to see what had been hunted for. To see what the enemies of his mysterious colleagues had been trying to find.

This would've been a lot easier if he'd already had an idea of everything in here. No doubt, a whole lot of things were missing, but Emund had never seen most of them in the first place. Nevertheless, he shrugged off his backpack, sat down in the middle of the room, and began sorting through items.

Many of the books were just ordinary texts on historical topics, like from any library. In fact, all of them were. If there had been any more of those special red leather books about secret ruins, they were gone now.

Behind the partition in the middle of the room, there was a bed, turned messily over onto its side. There was a trunk at its foot, now empty. There was a strongbox on the lower shelf of a nightstand by the bed, open but not empty—it was full of gold coins.

That, more than anything, struck him. Whoever had attacked this place hadn't done it for riches. They hadn't even tried to make it look like they'd done it for riches. They'd been after something in particular. One of the books, then, or something else.

He needed answers. But everyone he would have asked for them was dead.

Emund sat down on the floor by his backpack. Gelther's ashes were just a few feet away from him.

His mission wasn't over. All of that work to find the blue stone would be for naught. All of his efforts to free himself of the Gray Cowl's curse would be for naught. He had to act. To leave this place and continue his work. Yet there were were scant few choices left to him.

There was one, of course. A place he'd never been to before, but the place from which all their orders in this stronghold had originated. And that was the city of Winterhold.

But it would only work if everything went right. If the High King would even speak to him. If the reputation of the Gray Cowl's previous wearer, or wearers, hadn't already colored how the royal court would treat him. If they wouldn't simply throw him in prison, or try to have him killed. If they didn't instead choose to suspect him for murdering all these people.

If they even knew all these people in the stronghold had existed. Hylana had said that her organization worked for the High King, but this place was cloaked in secrets upon secrets. The High King might not have even known who was receiving his orders.

He knew what he had to do. He wasn't going to like it.


	29. Small Steps

Turdas, 3:34 PM, 6th of Sun's Dusk, 1E 173

Snowhawk

The city felt different. Yngva wasn't sure how to describe it. The gatehouses were the same, the streets were the same, the buildings were the same, the afternoon traffic was the same … but it all felt different. It felt smaller, somehow.

She wished she were happier to see it. But there was no triumph in this return.

Over the past weeks, she and Divayth had retraced their steps, all the way through the Pale and Whiterun Hold and now Hjaalmarch again—with only a brief detour first to the outskirts of Windhelm, where she sent a letter north to Winterhold. The travel had been slow. They hadn't talked very much.

But it seemed that the Chimer's declaration of friendship continued in both victory and defeat, because as they walked into the city of Snowhawk, they brought only defeat with them. They had lost the book, lost the blue stone, failed in the High King's mission—and worst of all, had been bested in combat by a complete stranger. There was only one positive element in all this.

They were still alive and free. That was their sole victory.

The walk through the city was brief. The three spires towered over the rooftops ahead, as they always did. After putting their pack horse up in the stables and removing its bags, Yngva was back in Snowhawk like she'd always been.

Besides that she was now walking with fifty pounds of weight in her backpack, and another thirty on either arm, plus the weight of her weapons and armor. This was going to make her sore.

But still, it all felt familiar. She threaded her way through the streets like she'd always done, finding the path to Whitehorn Hall where she'd always lived. The little stone building with the tiny porch in front. Or, large compared to other houses around here—little compared to the structures she'd seen of late.

"Home at last," she remarked, setting one of her bags on the ground in order to retrieve her key.

"You could sound a little happier about it," replied Divayth, before he walked up to the bag and lifted it up by the cloth strap in both arms. His voice instantly switched from 'normal conversation' to 'pained grunting.' "Oh gods this is heavy, how did you do this."

Yngva ignored him and went on to the door. "I hope Drisa hasn't been moved to the service of another Thane yet. I don't know who would make us those cinnamon rolls."

Divayth snorted. "Don't joke. I actually liked those."

They were out of time for talking. Yngva slotted her key into the steel lock, twisted, and pushed the doors wide open.

The sight on the other side was familiar. It was her home. The main room, the stairways, the back and side doors, the numerous decorations throughout—all of it was just as she remembered. The hearth was burning bright, and sure enough, Drisa was sitting beside it, tending the fire.

The moment the elder Nord saw the two of them, she shot to her feet. "Yngva! My dear! You're home!"

Yngva was totally unprepared for it. She had just enough time to drop her second bag on the floor before Drisa's arms were around her. "Yes," she said, from over Drisa's shoulder. She could barely feel it through all her armor, no matter how much she'd have liked to. "We're back. Safe and sound."

Once Divayth was inside, he promptly dropped his own bag with a heavy thud, then closed the door behind him and said, "Our journey has been long and arduous. Is the guest room still available?"

"Oh, all of the rooms are," Drisa said, extracting herself from Yngva's front so she could resume conversing like normal. She was still practically bursting with glee. "You must be exhausted after all your journeying. I've just been preparing the hearth for a modest dinner. I think a much finer one is in order now."

"The healing spells helped with the exhaustion," Yngva commented.

Divayth said, "I'm still about ready to go to sleep."

On one level, it was, of course, good to be home again. But the Nord girl's mind was elsewhere. Oddly, at the moment, she simply felt physically uncomfortable. She had broken a sweat from carrying all the heavy bags across town. Her smallclothes were already damp from it. Soon, they'd be clammy and awful. She couldn't wait to get out of all this stuff.

"Well, I'll let you on your way," said Drisa, still smiling. "Ah—before you go, Yngva, shall I send word to the Snow Palace?"

That meant Hakind. Yngva had been looking forward to this part. She smiled back. "Absolutely."

The next thirty minutes were spent in a long, laborious process of unpacking and settling in. Yngva first had to get a drink of water, because she'd been walking all day. Then she had to remove all of her kit, then fetch a much larger amount of water, and give herself the most thorough bath she'd gotten in what felt like a lifetime. It felt so good to be totally clean. It felt even better afterwards, when she changed into an actual proper dress for the first time since she'd left.

She spent a little while simply looking at herself in the mirror in her room. Nearly two months had passed. Two months of travel and adventure and peril and wonder. Snowhawk felt different, but in truth, it was the same as before. She was the one who'd changed.

At least their rations had been enough for her to not lose much weight. Maintaining muscles like hers wasn't easy business.

Next, the Nord girl spent a little time unpacking items from her bags, setting them on shelves or simply putting them in piles to be sorted later. There was quite a lot. Empty bags, dirty linens, leftover food, travel gear, loot from Ysgramor's Vault. It ended up making the main room look quite a bit messier, at least for now.

And that was how her first half-hour in Whitehorn Hall went. She would have gone on even longer, sorting and putting away items before her fatigue could get the better of her, but at around the half-hour mark, there was a knock on her front door.

She immediately answered. The list of people this could likely be was very, very short.

Standing there on her porch was Hakind. The sight of him made Yngva's heart leap.

"Hello, Yngva," he said.

They grabbed each other in a kiss before he could even step inside the house. It was a tight, hot embrace, furiously abrupt, with all the pent-up passion of a long journey apart. Neither of them let go until they'd worked their way inside the house and kicked the door shut behind them.

"You look good," Yngva replied. And she meant it. Hakind had dressed up for the occasion, not in his armor but in a proper embroidered doublet, complete with jewelry. His hair was trimmed neatly at neck-length, and—there were a few dark hairs on his chin and lip. Short, sparse, fuzzy-looking hairs, but the very first of many to come.

That was new. It stood to reason. It'd been two months. Hakind was fourteen now. His birthday would have been just a week ago. He was growing so quickly.

Hakind said, "I missed you. It's so good to have you back here. In one piece."

"It was a longer trek than I'd planned for. I'm sorry I missed your birthday."

"What?" The younger Nord made a face. "That's nothing. Forget about that. I want to hear about what you found. The Jarl … my mother and I have been waiting this entire time to see what would come of your quest. It's important to both of us."

Yngva leaned back and turned to look at the hearth. Drisa was on the far side of the room, busy preparing some ingredients or other in a wooden bowl.

"Well, we were going to have some dinner in a while," she said, turning back to Hakind. "Do you think you can stay with us until then?"

Hakind took off his shoes courteously, then walked over and took a seat on one of the chairs by the hearth. "It sounds like it's time for you to tell us your story."

Her story. It was still a strange thought, the idea that anything she'd done was even worthy of retelling. She supposed now that her experience across Skyrim was the sort of thing that her parents had such a wealth of. They'd always made a point of telling the grandiose tales of their adventuresome exploits. But this didn't feel grandiose. Yngva's journey had been grueling, and unglamorous, and at times simply desperate. And on top of that, it had been a failure.

Still, the Nord crossed over to sit opposite him. "All right." She let out a long sigh, staring into the low flames in front of her. The warmth of home. Here she was, safe at last, with the whole trip firmly in the past. "Where to begin?"

She began with the journey from Snowhawk to Winterhold. The passage through Whiterun Hold, the sudden cold of the Pale, the tundra of the north, the auroras in the sky at night. Then she described the sight of the capital city, and her journey into the Arcanaeum … which ended abruptly with her arrest by the city guard. And then came the prison cells, and then came the High King and their secret conversation. Even with everything that came later, Yngva felt in hindsight that she'd been in her deepest danger on that night and morning.

But after that morning came the journey south, into Eastmarch, for the hidden ruin of Ysgramor's Vault. Yngva took her time describing the fight with the draugr—Hakind was hanging on every word. And she even took note that they did find the treasure they'd been sent for. Except that then, they'd suddenly been attacked by surprise, and now the mission was forfeit. Now there was nowhere to go and nothing to do. She'd sent a letter north to Winterhold explaining her failure, and headed to Snowhawk to figure out her next move.

"... oh, but if you're worried you weren't able to help any more, I did put that dagger of yours to use." Yngva smiled. "Saved my hide, just like you wanted."

Hakind stared, mouth agape, for a few long seconds. Then his face slowly turned to a big grin of his own. "All right. I'm glad I made a difference."

"You did. And before I forget—" The Nord girl stood up suddenly, walking off towards the front door and searching through the pile of unpacked supplies. She found what she was looking for in the form of a roughspun cloth bundle.

Which she then put right in Hakind's arms. "This is for you. A belated birthday gift. I imagined you might like to hang it on a wall somewhere."

He unwrapped the bundle carefully in both hands. Inside was a one-handed war axe. Yngva had polished and sharpened the alloyed steel of the blade during the journey back, but it was still obviously an ancient Nord relic. The haft was gray and dry with age. The head, even when clean of the tarnish of age—weapons like these seemed to respond to time more like silver than iron—was still obviously of the old Atmoran design, with spikes and prongs and odd angular contours. The flat of the axe head was completely covered in beautifully engraved patterns, mimicking the sharp-angled form of the blade itself. It was more than a weapon. It was a work of art.

Hakind's eyes lit up. "Thank you," he said immediately. "Is this—did you get this from the ruin?"

"Right out of a draugr's cold dead hands," Yngva nodded in satisfied confirmation, unable to help herself.

"This is amazing. I don't… I don't even know what to say. This'll go on display in my room, no doubt about it. I can't believe you got this."

But she had. Even if she'd failed to retrieve the treasure she'd been sent for, the draugr and their weapons had all been down there for the taking.

Unfortunately, that didn't make the mission a success.

Yngva sat down slowly, her mood suddenly burdened by the reminder of that reality. "It wasn't that hard. They were just draugr. So far, what I'm gathering is that the real enemies are the ones with living minds."

A little while went by in silence. She stared into the flames for a while longer. The warmth of home.

Drisa was still over by the back of the room, working on her food preparations. No doubt, she'd heard every word so far, and she had her own opinions on all of it, but she was keeping to herself. It was appreciated. Yngva wasn't sure how much of other people's opinions she could withstand at the moment.

But she was still home and safe. That much couldn't be overstated.

"You said you're back in Snowhawk to plan your next move," Hakind said.

Yngva nodded.

"You sent a letter to Winterhold. Instead of going up there yourself."

She nodded again.

"Does that mean you're not sure if you want to keep trying to exact revenge?"

Yngva took a sharp breath in. Divayth hadn't asked her that question, but they both knew the answer already. Hakind hadn't taken long to catch on either.

"Yes," she admitted. "I'm afraid I might be in over my head with this. There are better-qualified people than I to undertake this quest. I started out looking for vengeance for my parents, and I ended up going on a mission for the High King's favor. That's not right at all."

Hakind hesitated for a moment, then said, "For what it's worth, I think you could still do it."

"I don't know about that. This mission I was sent on, it seems to be part of some grand conflict between rulers of races. I'm not the only contender in it. Divayth and I met another outside Ysgramor's Vault, and we were soundly defeated. The answer here is obvious. We're not ready. I'm not so proud that I can't admit my limits."

"Fair enough, I suppose." The younger Nord frowned. "I hope this doesn't mean you're considering stopping adventuring entirely."

Yngva did her best not to scoff. "Oh, no. No, no no no. I've trained my whole life for this. I think the message at hand is more that I'm not done training. And possibly that I might like to travel alongside someone besides Divayth, because I can't expect him to risk his life for my regular business."

Hakind brightened again. "Someone like me?"

"I can't expect you to risk your life either!" Yngva laughed. "You're the Jarl's heir. Come on. She'd have my head on a spike if anything happened to you on my watch."

"You're the Jarl's heeeir," he repeated in a mocking sneer, before breaking into a grin. "I can fight. Give me a few years, I'll be right with you. Besides, one day I'll be the Jarl. I'll make you my housecarl. Who can stop us then?"

Yngva looked around herself. "But if I have a place in the Snow Palace, who will live in Whitehorn Hall?"

"All of your amazing people who work for you, because you'll be rich from all the plunder from ruins and things. Obviously."

This was why her heart belonged to Hakind. There wasn't any shame in taking note of it. He was somehow managing to salvage Yngva's mood, despite everything.

She said, "I think I've spoken enough about my own little affairs for now. I'm curious what's happened around here in my absence. As I recall, I left on the 16th of Hearthfire. A lot can take place in that span of time. And ordinarily, I wouldn't care much, but my parents are gone, so whatever concerns this household—"

Yngva's sentence was interrupted by a knock on the door.

She immediately stood up. "I'll get it," she said, already heading to pull it open.

Behind her, Hakind asked, "Well, who could this be?"

When Yngva opened the door, she wasn't sure what she saw on the other side. It was a man, dressed in commoner's clothes, but with a strange gray mask on the top half of his face. It was the most distinct thing about the person that Yngva could make out. A sleek, gray mask with strange blue lettering down the middle.

She'd seen it before. It was so familiar, it made her stomach lurch. But she couldn't quite remember where.

She asked, "Who are you?"

"I can't tell you that," the man said. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't. But I'm not your enemy. I came here for you."

Then Yngva realized where she'd seen the mask. Out of context, it was almost impossible to place. But then she heard those words, and it all came crashing into place. This was the mask she'd seen staring down through the doors of Ysgramor's Vault.

And she didn't have a sword on her person.

"You're the dragon priest," she hissed. "You're the one who attacked me. Give me one reason I shouldn't kill you where you stand."

The man winced. "I'm really, really sorry about that. I didn't want to fight you. I'm not even a dragon priest. I wanted to talk to you, but your friend hit me with a lightning spell before I could get a word out. And then you were on me with your sword, and…"

A couple thoughts began to flit through Yngva's mind, rising above the aftershocks of that jolt of fear. Firstly, this situation was becoming much more complicated than she'd thought, and maybe that entire fight outside Ysgramor's Vault had been totally different in truth than how she'd seen it. But more than that—much more worryingly than that—with this man standing here before her, the quest for the High King of Skyrim was no longer off the table. That door had just been reopened.

"You were dressed like a dragon priest," she said, for lack of anything else she could think to voice.

"It was my best armor. I didn't mean to make myself look like a draugr or something." The man shrugged apologetically. "I thought not having a skull face would be clear enough."

Yngva focused on the exposed portion of the man's face, below the mask. She still wasn't sure what she was looking at. There didn't seem to be much of a beard, or else

"I'm … having a hard time seeing your face," she said warily. "What's going on?"

Then Hakind's voice spoke from behind her: "Yes. What is going on?"

He was standing right there behind Yngva's shoulder, eyeing the stranger warily, with that well-polished ancient war axe in his hands. He looked about ready to bring it into a proper combat stance, although he hadn't yet.

"Put that away," Yngva said, shaking her head. "I don't think we need to fight right now."

The masked man said, "Exactly. May I please come inside?"

Yngva considered it for a moment. If she deemed the man untrustworthy enough to refuse, he might have tried breaking in anyway. But there was little reason to take that route. The man had shown up again, apparently after trying to find her and Divayth on a peaceful basis. He'd done this, after absconding with their treasure. There could be no selfish motive for this visit.

While Hakind put the axe down, Yngva stepped aside and held the door open. "All right. Come in. We're having dinner soon."

The masked man walked inside and let Yngva shut the door again. He glanced at Drisa, who was staring at him blankly. "Is ... that an invitation?"

"Depends how this conversation goes," said Yngva. "I have questions for you."

"I might have answers."

"What were you doing at that ruin in the first place?"

"We're working for the same man, ultimately. The High King of Skyrim." The masked man stepped inside slowly as he talked, observing the room around him. He was wearing a large leather backpack on his back. Maybe it had those dragon priest robes inside. "And I read the same book as you."

"So you know about the Blades of Men," Yngva said.

The man turned and stared at her silently for a few seconds. Then he raised a single finger and pointed it at her. "That is actually the first time I've heard their name. I've been working with them for months, and they never told me what they're called. They received word that two adventurers from Snowhawk, named Yngva and Divayth, were going to Ysgramor's Vault, so I was instructed to shadow you and make sure you'd be alright. And… obviously, that didn't go according to plan. By the way, Yngva, it's nice to meet you."

That first comment struck Yngva more than anything. A random mystery stranger had shown up at her doorstep, wearing some magical mask that made him impossible to identify, and yet there were things Yngva knew and he didn't.

"That leads me to the next question, actually. Why did you take the blue stone from us?"

"I didn't mean to. I wanted to let you keep it. But then we started fighting, and I got carried away, and then the … stone got carried away, too. By me. And by the time I came to my senses, I was too far away to do anything about it. I really am sorry about that. Please, take it back."

The man unslung his backpack and set it on the floor. Then he opened the top flap, reached down inside with both hands—and pulled out the blue stone.

It was exactly like Yngva remembered it. Solid and perfectly smooth, glossy and iridescent, glimmering cold and warm colors in the light through the windows and from the hearth. She'd never expected she'd see it again. And yet here it was.

Yngva held out her hands expectantly. The man placed the stone right into them. It was cool and heavy, like she remembered. She shouldn't have been experiencing this right now—it should have been impossible, she'd lost that fight—but it was happening all the same.

She asked, "Why are you doing this? Why are you even here? You could've taken this up to Winterhold, to the High King. Or the Blades of Men you've been working with. I'm just an unsuccessful pawn in all this."

"Because when I got back to our hidden stronghold, all of the Blades of Men were dead. Someone else had gone in and raided the place. One person, by the look of it. They took down at least a few dozen men and women, all well-trained in combat. I'm pretty sure the only reason I'm alive is because I wasn't there."

Two dots connected in Yngva's mind. Someone was working to steal things from these places of protection. Someone who could kill an elite Thane and her housecarl, or slaughter an entire hidden stronghold's worth of secret soldiers.

The quest for vengeance had resumed.

The man continued talking. "I'm not going to go to the High King because I've never met him. He might have my head just as soon as give me aid. Unlike you, he didn't see the treasure in Ysgramor's Vault, so the stone would mean nothing to him. And besides that, people tend not to trust someone whose face they can't even see, and whose name they can't remember. It's even worse with the mask off—then you wouldn't be able to identify me at all. The mask is cursed. I can't get rid of it. That's how I ended up in all this mess to begin with."

Hakind cut in. "So you came to us, figuring that we'd be able to help you sort out what to do with this magical ball of yours."

"Exactly."

Yngva had to admit, she was stunned by how quickly and easily this whole thing had been resolved. So this person, this mystery man, was stuck with a cursed mask that kept anyone from identifying him properly. And he'd been on Yngva's side all along, despite the mask—among other factors—making their first meeting so tempestuous. But those were easy enough to look past. He'd just proven his loyalty by meeting her here to return the stone. The rest seemed like it would be smooth sailing.

"It's nice to meet you too," Yngva said. "What should I call you?"

"The Blades of Men called me the Gray One. That should do." The man looked at Hakind. "And who are you, now?"

"Hakind, son of Jarl Idrun. It's a pleasure." As always, Hakind's manners were exactly as they needed to be.

From across the room, Drisa said, "Shall I prepare another place at the dinner table, then?"

"As long as you don't mind me eating with the mask on," said the Gray One in an amused tone.

Yngva shrugged. "Wear what you like. We need to figure out what we're going to do. If we're in this together now—are we in this together?"

"We are."

"Then we need to find out who's doing this, and why. I can think of a few steps we'll want to take. First among them, I have a letter to write."


	30. First Revelation

A faint, moaning cry echoed in the dark. It was a sound of fear, of pain. Of torture.

The sun rose and set. Stars tilted through the sky. The cycle was unending. The illusory segments of Time all bled together. They were as one.

The girl stared out at the orange sunrise. She was looking at something she didn't recognize. She was hearing something she didn't understand.

But the vision ended abruptly. Steam hissed through the air. Pages of paper curled and blackened in flame. Metal clashed upon metal, amid screams and shouts of raging battle.

The masked faces looked down with their bloody blades, ready to cause another eternity of agony. They were like wolves, their teeth hidden behind cloth, preparing to rend and slice living flesh.

Blue eyes on a blue face glared upon him. They were waiting for him to act. Waiting for him to react.

Warmth spread over the cold ground. The blood fell down drop by drop, rippling through the puddle. It would never stop.

The bloodshed would never stop. The pain would never stop. It was everywhere.

Emund didn't understand. He remembered it all, but he didn't understand. It only disturbed him.

Fredas, 9:12 AM, 7th of Sun's Dusk, 1E 173

Whitehorn Hall

Emund hefted the steel weapon in both hands. The blade was long and narrow, nimble for its size. Blunted edges, flattened tip—perfect for training. He'd used weapons not unlike this very one in the hidden stronghold.

He asked, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Across from him in the yard, Yngva was already sinking into a fighting stance, sword held across her body. She was less armored than when they'd first met, but not by much. Her beautiful golden hair was hidden again under her light steel helmet. Her lithe frame was encased in the padding of an arming jacket. She still made the outfit look graceful.

"Absolutely," she said.

It was Emund's first morning in Snowhawk, and the weather was cold and gray. Nearly freezing, in fact. But he barely felt that, because with his dragon priest robes on, he was all but immune to the weather.

He wanted to comment on the fact that he'd lived in Tvalistead all his life, but had never braved the one single mountain pass he'd need to cross to visit Snowhawk. But none of these people would remember if he did.

"If you insist," he said, entering a stance of his own. "I'll try to be careful."

The Place was already stirring. He reminded it that he was only training now. It was just like with Gelther. This fight was only for pretend, not for real. There was no need to seriously hurt his opponent. The Place understood that, even if it wanted to unleash its full might. Even if it wanted blood.

Yngva nodded wordlessly at him, then stepped in for the opening strike.

For all the finesse of swordfighting, longswords made the most forceful and brutal work of the lot. But against all odds, their spar was a swift, elegant, wondrous dance of blades. Emund raised his sword against Yngva's descending cut, sliding right out into a cut of his own, parrying again afterward—with each move, steel clashed against steel, ringing all through the garden.

It was actually a lot of fun. Nothing like that first desperate fight of theirs. Emund found himself surprised by how much of a thrill he was getting.

The first bout ended when he tipped his sword over Yngva's parry and caught her on the collar. They pulled away, settling into new stances, and the spar began anew. Their first few strikes and parries hit only the air where each had been an instant before. Then suddenly, their blades bit into each other at nearly a parallel angle, aimed straight at each other. Emund suddenly felt an urge to grab onto Yngva's blade against his own, before it could thrust in—to close in for a grapple and throw his opponent down flat. He resisted the urge. This wasn't a real duel. It was only a spar.

A flattened steel point pushed against his chest. Yngva had just pretend-skewered him through the heart. His own sword was at an awkward angle, nowhere near Yngva's body.

"There, we're tied," the girl said, still grinning as she pulled away.

Emund said nothing. He didn't want to try to explain what was going on in his head right then. It wasn't a simple matter of fighting practiced impulses. He was fighting another entity's directions for him. But he hadn't explained the separate personality in his head, and he didn't want to start now.

Besides, this was still fun. He came closer and aimed a thrust at Yngva's own chest, as if in retaliation—really, inviting her to react.

She reacted as expected, with an upward parry. Emund circled his sword away and came back in from the side, and the flurry of steel strikes began anew. He stepped from one position to the next with each blow, executing feints and counters with practiced technical ease, watching Yngva's eyes as much as her blade.

It went on until Yngva attempted a feint of her own, bringing her sword behind her shoulder for a sideways cut, only to roll her head aside and swing the blade down nearly vertically. Emund darted aside with a swift parry—he could have struck Yngva's unprotected face with his hilt guard, but for the sake of kindness, he stepped past her and drew the blade along her arm instead. It would have been a vicious slice, besides that Yngva was armored there and his sword wasn't sharp.

Still, it counted as a hit. They pulled apart once again. Yngva was frowning. "I was sure that'd hit you," she said.

Emund shrugged. "Don't be. I never am."

Behind him, an elven voice called out, "Yngva! Stop losing to random people!"

It was Divayth. The teenaged Chimer he'd heard about in Hylana's report, and who'd attacked him with that lightning spell at Ysgramor's Vault. He was looking a lot better than he had then. Clean-shaven, better-scrubbed, wearing actual proper robes, and not trying to fry Emund alive with destruction magic.

Emund glanced back to Yngva and let his sword fall to his side. "Care to take a little break?"

"I've got forms to do," Yngva said. "Go ahead and talk to him." Then she raised her voice, calling past Emund. "Divayth! Meet the Gray One! Our new best friend!"

And that was the sparring done. Emund held the sword by its blade, the hilt pointed upward, as he walked towards the porch. Divayth was standing at the top of it, but he backpedaled a few paces to make room.

"I'm sorry about the fight we had," the Nord began, as he walked past the elf to put his sword away on the weapon rack. "I didn't mean to do that."

Divayth folded his arms. "Oh, it was an accident? You just tripped over something? Sorry if I don't trust you, you just hit me in the face and beat up my friend and now you're stealing her."

Well, now Emund didn't know what to say.

Divayth just stared at him for a few more seconds. Then he said, "Who are you, even?"

Never mind. Now he did.

"I'm going to say four words," he said, "and I want you to repeat them each back to me. Alright?"

The Chimer gave him an inquisitive look. "Is this an experiment? Let's go inside. I don't want to bother Yngva while she's practicing how to cut your head off."

So they went inside. The first room is the dining room, with a rectangular table surrounded by a few chairs, and a doorway into the main room beyond. Even with the door shut behind them, they could see Yngva out the window, doing her sword drills in the grassy garden.

Divayth peered through the inner doorway. "Huh. I guess Drisa's not down here. Maybe she's cleaning something upstairs." Then he returned his attention to Emund. "Four words. Right?"

"Right. I'm going to say each word individually, and I want you to repeat them back to me, one by one. Alright?"

The elf clapped his hands together and nodded, tight-lipped with excitement. He was getting to do an experiment, of course he was excited by it. "Let's do this."

"My," Emund said.

"My," Divayth repeated.

"Name."

"Name."

"Is."

"Is."

"Emund."

Divayth said nothing. He was staring expectantly.

"I just said a fourth word. Did you hear it?"

"No, I didn't." Divayth squinted. "This is … this is actually really strange. I can't remember what the first three words were, if you said them yet."

Emund nodded slowly. He wasn't surprised at all. "I did. This is how the curse works. Anything that might point people towards my real identity is blotted out of their minds. If I say my name, they can't hear it. If I write my name, they can't see it. If I tell you where I'm from, how old I am, anything about me, it'll fail."

"Huh." The elf nodded slowly. "But you are on our side. We know that much about you. I guess the other stuff isn't as important. I kind of wonder if you're a Nord or something else, but that won't work either."

"Here's a question for you. You can see the lower half of my face, right? What color is my skin?"

Now Divayth stopped and squinted again. "... I hadn't really been looking at it. It's kind of … I guess it's, uh... " He shook his head. "If you have a beard, it's not big enough to block my view of your neck. That's all I've got. I think you're male, too, of course. It's strange, though—I hadn't really felt like anything was that off about you, until you told me to look more closely just now."

"This is basically why we ended up fighting," Emund said. "This, and your lightning bolt got my mouth and made my tongue numb. So I couldn't talk you out of it. Which is pretty much the worst reason ever to get stuck in a fight."

"Really? It did that?" Divayth's eyebrows shot up. "Divines be damned. I'll have to remember that trick if I ever get stuck with someone trying to use shouts on me."

Once, Emund wouldn't have known what that comment was supposed to mean. He would've assumed Divayth was talking about someone just hurling verbal abuse at him during a fight, which seemed like a contest that Divayth could have won anyway. But his training hadn't been solely in the art of combat.

He knew now that shouting was the translated term for what the dragons had called the Thu'um, which was a form of magic based on words instead of spells. No magicka was involved, but it took a tremendous amount of focus and commitment. And while a handful of Nords, known as Tongues, practiced it even now—using the power much like battlemages—it had been much more popular during the years of the Dragon Cult. Which meant that most of its practitioners were now buried beneath the earth.

He asked, "Draugr, I take it? Find any Tongues in Ysgramor's Vault?"

"They did have one, yes. It was manageable enough. I think fire does better against undead, in any case. Can't make them go numb if they don't feel anything in the first place." Divayth turned and leaned his hands backward on the edge of the table. "They were good warriors. And by good warriors, I mean I almost died."

"You seemed to do well for yourself," Emund said, a little placatingly.

"I guess, but…" The Chimer lowered his voice, glancing out the window. "I'm not like her. I don't revel in combat. I've been staying with her because she's important, but this fighting business isn't what I want to do. I'm saying all this because you're here now. I haven't wanted her to go alone, so, uh…"

Emund nodded. "I get it. Don't worry. If Yngva has to go out adventuring again, I'll stay with her."

"All right, good. Thanks." He already seemed relieved by it. "She's got important things to do. Don't screw it up for her. I don't know who you are, but I also don't care right now. Don't screw this up."

It was hard to get a read on this guy's usual personality. He liked Yngva, and didn't like Emund. But it wasn't really clear which of those was his usual attitude towards people. One thing was for sure, though: if Divayth had a grudge against the men of Skyrim, he had room to make exceptions. Most elves seemed to dislike Nords, based on what Emund had read. Just as well, though.

"You don't seem really bothered by the fact that Yngva's a Nord."

"Hey, you shut your mouth." Divayth stabbed a finger at him. "You've got no idea about her life."

From the other side of the house, there was a knock on the front door. Three light, sharp taps, as though made with a rigid object of some kind.

Emund and Divayth exchanged a glance.

"I'll get it," Divayth said. "Stay here, I don't want to scare them off."

"You're an elf."

"You're the Gray One!"

"Sit tight. I can do this." With that, Emund strode off through the main room—and on the way, pulled off his mask.

He twisted the latch open, then pulled the heavy wooden door open wide. Standing there in front of him was a Nord woman with red hair, wearing a two-tone dress outfit. She was peering at him in confusion.

Emund felt his jaw drop.

"Hello," the woman said, regarding him with a bemused look. "Is this Whitehorn Hall?"

"Yes." Emund immediately pulled his mask back on. "It's good to see you, Ren. Please come in."

Ren. The young Nord lady who'd sat across from him in the dining hall. One of the Blades of Men, and by now, supposed to be a pile of ashes on the stronghold floor. Yet here she stood. Emund had never been gladder to see anyone in his life.

Unless she had been a double agent the entire time, and she was planning to betray them all here too. But they'd get to that soon enough.

"Hello, Gray One," she said, smiling with glad relief. "It's good to see you."

She hurried into the main room. Emund closed the door after her.

Now Divayth stepped in again. He was circling around the hearth to greet the newcomer. Or react to the newcomer, at least. "Who is this, and why'd you just let her in?"

Emund said, "She's one of my secret colleagues who I thought was dead. Please go get Yngva. She needs to see this."

As Divayth reluctantly turned away, he looked at Ren and asked, "What are you doing here?"

The woman smiled again. "Looking for you, of course. Can we speak freely around the elf?"

"It bothers me that you even have to ask that."

A couple minutes later, all four of them were seated around the hearth. Yngva had replaced her sparring gear with a simple blouse and skirt, but she was still dabbing sweat away from her forehead with a damp rag. Divayth, sitting beside Yngva, was glowering at Ren in suspicious silence. Ren was looking around and waiting for someone else to start talking.

So Emund started them off. "Before we get anywhere at all, Ren, I want to know about how you survived. I saw what happened to our stronghold."

The Nord woman raised her eyebrows and took a deep breath in. "Well, I can only divulge so many details. Believe it or not, while the loss of that particular stronghold was a significant blow, our organization is still mostly intact, and its secrets must remain kept."

"Of course."

"But the short version is that I was running an errand when the attack took place. It was amazingly timed. When I got back, just before I was going to exit the treeline, I saw a figure come running out of the building. I only got a quick look at it, from nearly exactly behind. It was quite tall, and very dark from head to toe, and light on its feet. It had some sort of gold outlines on its body. And it was carrying a long, narrow bundle of cloth on its back."

So it had been a single attacker. That supported Emund's belief. Assuming that the other attackers hadn't left already, but again, there had been no tracks in the snow.

Now Yngva spoke. "First of all, I'm very sorry that this happened to you. It sounds horrible. Second of all, any information you can give us would be tremendously appreciated. This mystery assailant might be the very person we've been after this entire time."

"Third of all," Emund added, "I have a particular request for you."

"Go ahead," Ren said.

Here it came.

"Please prove to us that you didn't cause the attack."

It was great, watching the expression dawn on Ren's face. She must not have expected to be treated like a possible traitor. Not after being allowed into the house and everything. But it was three against one, and Emund was sitting right next to her. The only thing she could defend herself with was her speech.

"I can see why you'd think that," she said, eventually. "I might look like I came here only to undermine whatever new effort you're making. And I don't think I can disprove that beyond a shred of doubt, so I understand if you don't trust what I have to say. But after investigating the stronghold, I returned to watch from a distance. And I saw you, Gray One, emerge from the trees and head inside. When you came back out, I followed you briefly, and realized you were headed to Snowhawk. So I conferred with my superiors, and received the order to go find you again, and share what I'd learned. I didn't do that on the spot because … well, I figured you might try and kill me. For all I knew, you were in on it."

Yngva said, "He's not. I can vouch. He returned the treasure from Ysgramor's Vault to Divayth and myself."

Ren nodded. "Yngva, right?"

"How'd you know?"

"I conferred with my superiors."

"Your description reminds me," Emund said. "I never checked inside the farmhouse. Did the farmers…?"

Ren's expression darkened. "All dead. Sorry about that. They were on our side too."

Then Divayth finally spoke up. "Wait, hold on. Hold on. So this mystery person fought through your whole secret hideout in order to steal something from it. Do you not know what they stole?"

"I have a suspicion," Ren said. "But you're not going to like it."

Emund folded his arms. "Try me."

"My duties in the stronghold included being a messenger for people. And while I wasn't supposed to know all the context for my statements, in case I got captured, I understood enough to infer meanings. For example, I was aware that we had an Elder Scroll in our stronghold. I think that was what the person stole."

Emund cursed under his breath. Of course it was an Elder Scroll. Something more valuable than everything else in that place combined. Of course.

Yngva said, "That's not good. The High King told me that someone seemed to be hunting for Elder Scrolls. They took one from the Gates of Dusk, and they took one from the mountains south of here. Or something like that."

"That may well be," Ren said gravely. "I don't know how many Elder Scrolls the enemy is planning to hoard, but suffice to say, they must plan to use them quickly. Elder Scrolls are fickle artifacts. They like to disappear and reappear without any notice. Whatever our enemies are planning, I expect it'll be soon."

Divayth asked, "Who are our enemies here?"

Ren shook her head. "No one seems to be sure. But whoever they are, they knew how to find our stronghold. It's possible that they did it without help from the inside. The stronghold was fortified against illusion magic, but there might be other ways to locate it. If our enemy can find Elder Scrolls from afar…"

"That doesn't make sense," Yngva said, holding up a hand. "They needed the book to find the Gates of Dusk."

"But how did they find the second scroll? Agent Gelther was looking for that, and he lost track of it, somehow. In fact, according to his report, the entire cultist group he was hunting for went abruptly missing. It doesn't add up, unless someone slew the cultists and left with the scroll."

Emund felt his heart sink. He'd been there for that. He'd woken up to find the cultists' hideout empty, and the scroll gone. It was all starting to fall into place. Not only had Gelther been there for the scroll, the enemy had been there too. And the enemy had made it there first.

Yngva made a noise that was half-groan, half-sigh. "I don't know. I've had a lot of grief over that book. It seems like they needed it. It was lucky that the Jarl acquired it when she did."

"Was it, though? What if the enemy located the Elder Scroll in the Gates of Dusk first? Then all they would've had to do is find an excuse to go there and loot the item. If they simply went after it, we would notice, and we would be able to track whoever did it. But by making the Gates of Dusk publicly sought after, they overwhelmed our surveillance. Too many people were showing an interest in visiting, too many people were wandering through the wilderness. It didn't work."

Emund said, "That story is almost impossible unless they had help from the inside of your organization. Those books are supposed to be secure."

Ren grimaced. "All right. You know how my organization is cloaked in so many secrets?"

He didn't reply.

"We had a major incident a year or so ago. A case of terrible twists of luck. We were transporting a full set of copies of our books by wagon, and it was attacked by bandits. The wagon was looted and our agents killed. We executed a counter-attack on the bandits afterward, but they'd already been slaughtered. The books had been burned, along with most of the camp. A horrible breach of security, only averted by sheer luck. If the books had been missing, we would have had a problem."

Yngva asked, "Did you ever find out who attacked the camp?"

"I don't know. I don't believe so. Bandits fight each other all the time. Anyone who cared would've stolen the books, instead of burning them. They were priceless." Ren paused. "Unless the attacker already knew about the Gates of Dusk, and was just looking for the right smokescreen to strike it. Of course, they would've had to learn about the mysterious books in this camp. But they could have burned most of the books, except for the one on the Gates of Dusk—which they removed the first page from, before sending it to the Jarl of Snowhawk."

Emund said, "Not many people can have that extensive a network of spies. To learn about the loot in some random bandit camp."

"I'll admit, there are pieces still missing from this puzzle. But it's clear in my mind that our enemy doesn't need to rely on spies. They seem to have a clairvoyant knowledge of where to go and what to do. It makes them incredibly dangerous."

"If only we had something like that," Divayth commented.

Ren nodded. "If only."

Yngva asked, "So what comes next for us?"

"Well, at some point, we have to confront this enemy. It would be nice if we could find out what they're using these Elder Scrolls for. But my suggestion would be to go on the offensive."

"Hold on. What?" Yngva shot Ren an incredulous look. "How can we do that if we don't even know who the enemy is? We don't know where to go, who to fight. We have too little information."

"Spoken like a true warrior," Ren remarked dryly. "The best information I have suggests that we're dealing with one or more of the Dwemer freeholds. Our intelligence within their cities is limited. They do very little trade, and very little diplomacy with the outside world. Although that is slowly changing."

Emund said, "It is?"

"Yes. In the city of Mzulft, the clan leader is introducing new measures to increase negotiations with us Nords, which for them means more opportunities for trade. For us, it means more opportunities to learn what they're doing. We might even be able to establish an embassy in their city. Then we'd learn about their goings-on without even trying."

"That's horrible," Divayth said, scowling. "You're just going to exploit them for trying to reach out to you?"

Ren shrugged. "It's nothing they won't expect, I'm sure. Either way, it's out of my control. The point is that we should be expecting Dwemer magic on the opposition."

Yngva said, "I have a Dwemer contact coming here before long. Kelthenez, from Whiterun. Have you heard of him? He did business with my parents."

"Kelthenez… no, that name doesn't ring a bell. But we may have obtained information from him at one point or another. He wouldn't know he was supplying it to my organization in particular, of course. But feel free to ask him about all this."

"I'm looking forward to seeing him again," Divayth murmured.

Ren looked at Divayth. "I've been wondering. What do you make of all this? You're looking at the whole thing from an outsider's perspective. What do you think?"

"I think you're all crazy power-hungry fiends," the Chimer said, without missing a beat. "But that's true of anyone, including my people back in Veloth. I just want to help Yngva see this to its end. We've been through too much together for me to want to leave now."

The Nord woman nodded appreciatively. "Fair enough. I'll gladly leave you to it."

Yngva asked, "How long will you be with us? Or was it just this one conversation?"

"The latter, unfortunately. I can't stay. I have to go tell my evil secret contacts where you live." Ren gave Emund an impudent look, before quickly sobering up again. "No, though, I do need to keep moving. I'm sure there are eyes on me out there. If I stay too long in Snowhawk, our enemies may realize I'm not simply passing through."

It was an uncomfortable thought. But, Emund supposed, it was worth the risk. They hadn't told her anything new. And if all she wanted was to determine Emund's location, she wouldn't have had to open the door for that.

Ren went on. "If you need to ask my organization for assistance, go to the Snow Palace and ask the steward for bounties on stolen Nord artifacts. He'll send you to someone who can put you in contact with us again."

"That's very complicated," Divayth said.

"Not really. The person barely knows anything about us anyway, I expect. Not enough to realize he has a secret worth selling."

Emund asked, "Is there anything else you want to tell us, or ask us, before you go?"

The woman paused for a few seconds, staring blankly ahead, mouthing words under her breath, like she was going down a list. Then she focused on Emund and snapped her fingers. "Right, yes. One other thing. As far as we can tell, Gray One, the enemy still has no idea you exist. They certainly didn't know to look for you in the stronghold. And Yngva, the enemy may know that you brought the book to Winterhold, but it's good that you came back here to Snowhawk. It gives the impression that your journey was fruitless, and they won't try to put a stop to you."

"Well, I was under that impression until the Gray One showed up yesterday," Yngva remarked. "That's good to know, though. At least we don't have to be too cripplingly paranoid about what we do. … So far."

"It was nice to meet both of you," Ren said. "Yngva, Divayth. I wish you the best in the trials to come."

"It was nice to see you again," Emund added, even though she hadn't been addressing him. "I'm glad someone else from our hideout is still alive. That was really sad for me."

And that was the end of the meeting. With a few more polite farewells, Ren stood up from her chair, and Yngva saw her out the door. Just like that, she was gone, as quickly as she'd arrived.

Once it was over, Emund turned back to the hearth and let out a long sigh. "We have … work to do."

"Training to do," Yngva said, "if we want to do better than your Blades of Men against the mystery killer."

"And a bit of waiting for Kelthenez," Divayth said. "If the Dwemer are responsible for this, he'll help us figure out our next step."

At that moment, the stairs creaked above them. It was Drisa, coming down and carrying a broom in one hand.

"Oh, hello, dears. Did we have a visitor just now?"


	31. Second Revelation

Middas, 1:44 PM, 19th of Sun's Dusk, 1E 173

Snowhawk

These days, Yngva had few opportunities to simply explore Snowhawk. She'd been back for about two weeks, and most of her time was spent training. Largely with the Gray One, of course. Not since her parents had been alive had anyone taught her so well about how to handle weapons. And he knew so much more—the lore of Skyrim, the secrets of the Blades of Men. He even seemed to be getting along with Hakind, finally.

But despite that, this whole situation felt like it had gotten out of hand. Yngva's parents had died nearly four months ago. She still ached for their absence. It was beginning to feel like vengeance wouldn't defeat her pain after all. Only time would tell, of course, but her mission had clearly become less about vengeance and more about saving the Nord kingdom.

So now she walked through Snowhawk's streets, on the way home from a few errands—the notary in the Snow Palace, the courier's office, a few other miscellanea. Now she was walking through the afternoon outdoors with a leather case full of papers under one arm, taking in the brisk air of the city. Winter was upon them in earnest. Passersby were few and far between. A dusting of snow covered the streets and the rooftops.

She was wearing her fur cloak again. The very same one that she'd worn to Winterhold, that they'd let her keep in her prison cell. She was considering selling it and buying a different one, simply so that she could better leave that memory in the past.

Still, Whitehorn Hall awaited her. She wound her way through side streets and alleys until she was coming up on her home from behind. That meant the first thing she saw was the semicircular stone wall of the outer garden. The one that Hakind seemed to always like to climb.

No noises were coming from within. No one was sparring or working or anything else. Yngva circled around to the front door, fished out her key, and let herself in.

The room inside was deliciously warm, the air pleasantly still and scented with the wood fire of the hearth. Drisa was tending the flames, as she often did. Voices were coming from the dining room in back. Divayth's voice, and others.

Yngva pulled off her outerwear in a hurry, coming in past the hearth at a swift striding pace. She knew those voices.

Of all the times that it could have happened, how had he arrived right when Yngva had been out?

In the dining room, the Gray One was standing nearby the back wall, in his full dragon priest gear, posing with the ebony longsword from Ysgramor's Vault. He had it in a low, ready fighting stance, and was chatting idly while he stood there. Divayth was sitting at the dining room table and reading a book. And next to him, in the seat nearest Yngva, Kelthenez was hunched over a large piece of white paper, working away at it with some writing utensil.

The Gray One smiled at the sight of her. "Welcome back, Yngva. Did your errands go well?"

"Yes," Yngva said. "Hello, Kel."

The Dwemer turned to look at her over his shoulder, then immediately put his utensil down and stood up with a smile. He was looking almost exactly the same as Yngva remembered him—with a green-colored tunic instead of purple, but besides that, no different. Still smooth, still golden, still wearing the Nordic hairstyle. He looked good. "Hello, Yngva," he began. "It's so good to see you again. Divayth and the Gray One have been filling me in on the situation so far."

"Really? What have they said?"

"Not too much," Divayth commented, not looking up from his book. "I've been busy. Kel brought some books on Dwemer history."

The Gray One relaxed from his stance and said, "We were waiting for you to come back before we did anything major."

Yngva peered past Kelthenez at the paper on the table. It became immediately clear that he hadn't been writing on it—he'd been drawing. With a Dwemer metal cylindrical device that looked like it held a round, very narrow piece of charcoal inside. The drawing so far was a rough outline of the Gray One's hooded form. Very few of the details were filled in.

"I did tell you I can draw," Kelthenez said, stepping aside so Yngva could have a better look. "I generally don't do this for free, but I just wanted to see what would happen if I tried to draw something that we magically can't look at in detail. … I can add more detail than what's on the page, by the way. I only just started."

"Well, don't let me keep you. I actually have something I need you to appraise, if that's alright. But I need to go fetch it."

The Dwemer shrugged. "Sure. Appraisals are free."

"Right, one moment, then." Yngva started to leave the room, then turned around again. "You know, you're here a lot quicker than last time. How did that happen?"

"I wasn't bringing him with me," Kelthenez said, pointing to Divayth as he sat back down. "I just rode a horse. Your letter was cryptic enough that I figured this was important."

Yngva did her best to hold back a laugh as she left. This time, she actually did leave. What she needed was downstairs.

She slipped on a pair of shoes by the front door, then headed back past the larder to the stairway down to the cellar. It had been a while since she'd ventured down here—but not that long of a while. After coming home again, she'd concluded that her parents' storage cache was the best hiding place for odd valuable objects anywhere in the house.

So she opened the cellar door, cast a candlelight spell, and stepped inside, into the musty dark chamber with all its boxes and bags and shelves. There was a whole routine to this, complete with periodic refreshing of the spell. She closed the door behind her, emptied the box of gravel halfway, pushed it aside, and began prying up bricks with the crow's foot. Underneath was the Dwemer metal chest, the one with the sealed lid. She opened it much more easily than the first time she'd tried.

Many of the items inside were still there from before. The sword, crossbow and potions were gone, but the gold ingots, the various coins, and the soul gems were still there, among other objects. But nestled in among the treasures now was the pale blue spherical stone, the one from Ysgramor's Vault. Even in the cold white light of her spell, it was gleaming with subtle shades of green and pink. There was something very strange about it.

She refreshed the candlelight once again, then began closing up the chest, in the exact reverse routine from how she'd opened it. The entire thing had to be hidden just as before. From start to finish, she estimated it took about five minutes to retrieve anything from this chest. Even if it was one item.

Kelthenez might have been able to infer where she'd been hiding it. But that didn't matter much now.

Yngva waited at the bottom of the staircase for her spell to finally expire. Only then did she return up to the main room, and to the kitchen. She held the stone in both hands against her chest, like some fragile treasure that might break at the slightest impact. Even though, as experience had shown, it wouldn't.

In the dining room, the Gray One was still holding his pose, and Kelthenez was still sketching, and Divayth was still reading. It was all going along quietly without her. That was nice.

"Excuse me," Yngva said gently, not wanting to startle Kelthenez into making a mistake. "I have it."

Once again, the Dwemer set down his pen, and began to turn around to face Yngva. Then his eyes moved down to the stone, and he froze in place. For a long, pregnant moment, he stared at it, nearly expressionless.

Then he sat back down and gestured to the empty chair opposite Divayth. "Take a seat," he said. "We need to talk about this."

So he did recognize it. That made him the only one in the room who did. Yngva contained her satisfaction as she took her place at the table. She set the stone down in the middle of the table, between herself and Divayth. It rolled slightly, then touched a groove between the table's wooden boards and came still again. Just like any other ball of rock.

The Gray One, seeing that the drawing had been paused, slid the ebony longsword into a leather sheath and laid it against the wall, before seating himself across from Kelthenez. "So what is this?"

The Dwemer gestured to the stone, still looking at Yngva. He was expressionless. "Where did you get this item?"

"A Nord ruin in Eastmarch, a fair distance south of Windhelm, in the forest. It was guarded by a lot of draugr." Yngva leaned back in her seat, glancing at the stone. She was trying her best not to overwhelm herself with possible questions to ask. It seemed like Kelthenez was the one with the questions right then.

Divayth asked, "Why do you care?"

"Because I don't want to be involved in a diplomatic crisis," Kelthenez said sharply. "You've gotten yourselves into something much bigger than personal revenge. I'd advise all of you to exercise extreme caution."

"Kelthenez," Yngva started, tempering herself with deliberate patience, "we need to know what this stone is, and why it's important. We can't move forward without understanding what we're dealing with."

The Dwemer stared at her for a few seconds longer. Then he nodded. "My price consists of two things. First—a lot of gold. And I mean a lot. What we're looking at is part of possibly the biggest secret I know. Wars have been fought for far less. Second—I need to know what's going on here. Somehow, you went from looking at a book to looking at this stone. There's a story here, and I need to hear it."

"As long as you understand that some of it can't be repeated," the Gray One said. "For your own safety."

"Of course."

Yngva took a deep breath in. "We're going to be here a while. I'm going to go pour us some wine first."

"You might want to move your drawing first," Divayth said.

The Nord girl stood up and began to walk out once again, this time to go fetch a bottle from the larder. On the way out, she paused to look over Kelthenez's shoulder at the drawing he'd been doing.

It was much more detailed than before. The angular contours and decorations of the Gray One's clothing were there, down to the wrinkles in the fabric. The sword was exquisitely rendered, and his stance looked like one of a seasoned warrior. But it was the face that Yngva's eyes lingered on. Under the hood of the robe, there were only a few sharp lines for the mask, with hollow shaded-in scowling spots of void for the eyes.

And the entire lower half of the face was blank paper. Where there should have been a mouth and chin and neck, there was only empty space, all the way from the edge of the mask to the collar of the robe.

Yngva shuddered involuntarily as she walked out. That was the most accurate rendition of looking closely at the Gray One that she could've wanted. In fact, she didn't even want it.

Drisa was still at the hearth. That was fine.

In the larder, Yngva picked the first bottle she saw, only checking closely enough to make sure the label was actually for wine. Some Riften vintage or other, she didn't care. Mainly, she just needed a minute to think about this. To share the story of her adventure so far. It wasn't a pleasant story.

She returned to the dining room to find that Divayth had already put out the goblets. Yngva opened the bottle and poured some for all four of them.

The Gray One said, "A little early in the day for this, isn't it?"

"Drink it slowly," Yngva answered, sliding one of the goblets towards him. She sat down heavily in her seat. "All right. Where do I start?"

"The book," Kelthenez said.

So Yngva started with the book. She detailed the entire story: the trip to Winterhold, the debacle at the College, the High King's secret mission, the crossing of paths in Eastmarch, the return home, and now the latest revelations with the Gray One and the Blades of Men. That last part took the longest by far. The whole conversation with Ren had to be reproduced. At points, she had to ask the Gray One to fill in details.

By the time it was all done, the afternoon was halfway over, and the entire bottle was empty.

"This is even worse than I thought," Kelthenez said. "You have no idea what you've stumbled into. I'll tell you what I know, if you agree not to repeat it to anyone outside this room, as I have. And, of course, gold. Lots of gold."

The Gray One asked, "Do you really want to haggle over the exact amount right now?"

Kelthenez pondered it for a moment, then shrugged. "No. As long as I'm paid before you all go running off on your next adventure."

Yngva said, "Don't worry about that. I can ask the Jarl to help cover the cost if my reserves aren't enough, but I suspect they will. Let's start with the stone. What is it, and why did you react that way to it?"

"Here goes nothing," the Dwemer murmured, before clearing his throat and pointing to the stone. "That, right there, is a piece of Aetherial stone. A raw material created when a pocket of Aetherius exists in Mundus for an extended time, and the ambient magicka begins affecting local matter. If properly refined, its potential for magical effects would be limitless—but in its raw form, it's completely inert, to the point that it deadens any magic exerted on it. In fact, there's only one problem: It's not supposed to exist. I've heard descriptions, rumors, that sort of thing, but never proof. That stone matches it perfectly."

"Figures that the Atmorans might've plundered some," Divayth said.

The Gray One asked, "But where would it have come from?"

"I don't know. But I can guess. And it's all tied together with the Elder Scrolls. This whole thing feels connected. I can't put a logical label on it, but…" Kelthenez shook his head. "Are you sure you want to hear this?"

"Yes," Yngva said instantly.

"I think I know which freehold is responsible for seizing all these Elder Scrolls. Based on your description, it must be from Mzulft. At the top of their city, far up the mountainside, is an oculory. Which is basically a machine of moving magical lenses and reflectors, so big that it takes up an entire room. According to my contacts there, the Domain of Design has configured it to scan all of Tamriel for potent magical auras. Like an instant map. It wouldn't be too big a stretch for them to make it scan for Elder Scrolls in particular."

"Domain of Design," Yngva repeated. "What's that?"

"The Dwemer freeholds like to separate their governments and government-run institutions into organized ministries called Domains. In Bthardamz, we have Administration, Arcane Arts, Commerce, Crafts, Design, Education, Foreign Affairs, Husbandry, Public Works, Mining, Records, Security and War. It varies a little from one freehold to the next. Design is for new engineering ideas, basically."

"Oh."

The Gray One sat up in his seat. "Hey. Do you suppose the Aetherial stone might be able to mask the aura of an Elder Scroll?"

"What, like if you put them in a box together? Maybe. I suppose your Blade friends might've wanted you to find it for that purpose. Or maybe they wanted you to find it for another reason, like to keep anyone else from seizing it. It's hard to say."

"You seem pretty versed in all this sneaky scheming stuff," Divayth commented.

Kelthenez nodded agreeably. "Of course. I'm a Dwemer. Why do you think the Dwemer have such advanced works of technology when the rest of the world doesn't? We're good at navigating secrets. And I have one more to share with you today. It's the biggest of all, and if you repeat this to the wrong people, we could all be dead. But if you insist on carrying on with this mad mission of yours, you need to hear it, because I think I know where the people in Mzulft will get their last Elder Scroll."

Yngva said, "Last?"

"Without a doubt. There's a location in Skyrim that I know of, but I don't know why it's where it is. It's actually not far from here. Supposedly, it's under the control of Raldbthar. It's an isolated underground facility, accessible only by a mechanized lift platform to a small terminal on the surface. And I've never been inside it, but I know for a fact that it's used for the storage and reading of an Elder Scroll. My contact called it the Tower of Mzark."

"Do you know where it is, exactly?"

"I never saw it on a map, but I could probably figure it out. Of course, I never went searching for the place, even after I heard about it, because I don't have a death wish." Kelenez paused to glare at her for a second. "If the Dwemer of Mzulft can locate Elder Scrolls via oculory, they'll find that one. But whatever they're planning to do, they'll definitely want to seize that one last, because then Raldbthar will be at their throats."

Yngva sat back and thought. There was so much to think about. So much new information. Kelthenez had been right to treat this like a matter of such gigantic importance—because it was.

The Gray One spoke. "I have a request to make of you, Kelthenez. The exact way that you go about it is up to you, and I don't want to compromise your safety. But if you work with us on this, everything will fall into place."

"Go ahead," Kelthenez said.

Yngva leaned forward again, resting her forearms on the table. She wanted to hear this.

"I need you to tell your people in Mzulft that Raldbthar's onto them. That they've become suspicious of the plans that are going on, and that they're going to move the Elder Scroll. Obviously, you'll want to make it seem like you're doing them a favor, not feeding them a lie. But if you're right about Mzulft being the freehold responsible, they'll respond by sending their mystery agent straight for the Tower of Mzark before it's too late."

"Where you'll be waiting," the Dwemer finished.

"Exactly. Give us your best directions, and we'll find it by the time you've gotten the news out. We'll find a hidden spot where we can watch the terminal safely. Then get the mystery agent when they come back up from stealing the Elder Scroll."

Divayth asked, "And then what? They'll still be looking for their scroll."

"We won't really have to do anything at that point. They won't have their prized paragon, and they'll be short an Elder Scroll, so their secret project will be stalled. It might cause some friction between Raldbthar and Mzulft, but no one will know we're responsible." The Gray One turned to look straight across the table at Kelthenez. "Unless you betray us by telling the Dwemer of Mzulft our entire plan."

"I wouldn't." Kelthenez shook his head. "And not just out of loyalty to Yngva's family, although that too, a little. I have no future in the Dwemer freeholds. If I turned on you now, I'd lose all my standing in Whiterun, and probably everywhere else that the Nords control. But the Dwemer already want nothing to do with me, and this won't rebuild my standing with them."

Divayth spoke again. "Wait. If they don't trust you, do you really expect them to believe your testimony about Raldbthar?"

"Oh, that's easy. I'll just go and talk to them about something else, and let slip something that makes them think Raldbthar's suddenly suspicious that someone will steal some important hidden thing of theirs. They'll think I accidentally shared it."

The Chimer shook his head slowly. "Kel … I respect you so much, but sometimes you really unsettle me."

The Gray One turned to Yngva and said, "You're quiet. What do you think of all this?"

That was a good question. What did she think of all this? She'd just heard an outline of a plan.

A slow smile spread across the Nord girl's face. She couldn't help it. "I think it sounds like the best thing I've ever heard. I'm completely by your side." She looked at Kelthenez once more. "If you help us, I'll be forever in your debt. Anything you want. I'm committed to this."

Kelthenez frowned. "I don't like the sound of that. A lot of people are forever in my debt. They never pay it off in the end."

Yngva rubbed her chin thoughtfully. "All right, how about … when this is over, I'll give you my Daedric sword."

"Done."

"I hope you stay for dinner, at least," the Nord girl added.

From the main room, Drisa called over, "We're having roast pheasant! With apples and a cream sauce!"

Divayth grinned. "I really like Nord food sometimes."

"Uh." Kelthenez glanced over his shoulder. "Was … she listening to all of that?"

Yngva waved a hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it. She's heard worse."

"Right! Well. This has all been… splendid. I just spilled the biggest secrets that I know. Maybe ruined the future of one or two Dwemer freeholds. Feels strange." The elf paused, staring down at the table. "... I actually feel a little sick. I hope I don't regret this."

Then he looked back up, right at Yngva. He looked pained. "I'll do it. I will. I'm good for my word."

"Thank you, Kel," she said. "For everything. We couldn't have gotten this far without you."

"I know, Yngva. I know."

Across the table, the Gray One was smiling slightly. Yngva didn't know why. But when she tried to look at it more closely, she really saw nothing. It was like the drawing.

There was still so much she didn't understand.


	32. The Secret Stone

Fredas, 7:46 AM, 5th of Evening Star, 1E 173

Mzulft

"I'll be alright," Dalzren murmured. "Don't you worry about me. You don't need to. It's alright."

She was standing in the middle of her living room, all dressed up in her work uniform. Amalest was right in front of her. They were embracing tightly. Amalest was crying.

This was how it went every morning now.

Amalest was saying through his tears, "I'm sorry. I w… I wanted to do better. I just … I'm not good enough. I can't even do logic. I could've done something. I'm … sorry."

Despite all logic demanding otherwise, Amalest had come to believe that his mother's suffering was somehow his own fault. And he was led to say things like this.

"Yes, you can. You're going to be just fine."

"I don't want to go away."

Every morning, ever since he'd witnessed that one fateful Soul Fray attack, Amalest had been reluctant to leave for school. He didn't want to leave Dalzren's sight, because he was afraid he wouldn't see his mother again when he came home. And so every morning, Dalzren had needed to reassure him. To remind him that she was doing well and on the road to recovery, even though she had no guarantee that that was true.

He simply needed to hear it. Dalzren could scarcely imagine what sort of toll this experience had been taking on him. On top of all the woes of any Dwemer child, on top of the added strife of Mzulft's politics, he was facing the possibility of losing his only surviving parent. It was challenge enough to make sure he ate his breakfast in the morning—the stress had cost him his appetite.

If Dalzren died, then Amalest would end up in the care of the Domain of Home, and likely continue his childhood under some eventual foster parents. That much Amalest knew for certain. What he didn't know was that if Dalzren's death was because of the Soul Fray, then he wouldn't have long to live himself.

The entire situation was horrible. She could put up as brave a front as she liked for her son, but Dalzren was afraid too. For both of them. Using the Implier had bought her time, but now that time was passing.

"I'll be here. Don't you worry about that. I'm getting better, not worse. When the day's done, we'll meet here, and I'll make us something good for dinner. One step at a time. Alright?"

Amalest was quiet for a few seconds. Then eventually, he nodded weakly. "Alright."

Dalzren let go of him and stood back. "Now let's be on our way. I need to head on to work, too."

And thus, with a few more careful goodbyes, the mother and son headed on their way. Dalzren walked with Amalest all the way up to his stop at the Hall of Learning, then after a brief goodbye in the public corridor, continued ahead alone.

She had work to do.

Which meant she needed to focus on her job. That was part of her day as well.

Last week, a third Elder Scroll had come in. Dalzren hadn't been there for its installation. One evening, she left the Implier with two of its five shells closed, and the next morning, she arrived to find that the number had risen to three. Hizeft had offered no explanation. But the need to ensure that the machine would work properly had only increased.

Therefore, the latest project was a new machine to help navigate the Implier's visions. According to the schematics, it would be a very large lens assembly, about three feet across, with a corresponding viewing tablet of a similar size. The tablet would be powered by a row of grand soul gems, freshly harvested by the Domain of Husbandry. The idea was to put a buffer in between the viewer and the images, with the intent of averting accidental mental or physical harm from exploring them. Dalzren wasn't sure how some of the tablet's components worked—Hizeft had supplied them for her—but she didn't need to ask. The rest all fit together.

And that all meant a great deal of grinding lenses and assembling components. The same as usual, in a way.

The new gloves were certainly a help. They were solid black, made of linen with leather pads for gripping. But they mainly existed as a sleeve for the metal exoskeleton along their backs, from her wrists to her fingertips. A delicate array of articulated pneumatic joints, with attachment points all along the gloves, designed with one specific purpose—to amplify her grip strength, in order to better salvage her dexterity.

If any passersby in the Hall of Design asked, she told them it was to help her handle potentially hazardous materials. They hadn't needed to know of her condition before, and they didn't need to know now.

Dalzren walked the entire way up to her workspace without saying a word to anyone. It was a simple routine. She waited for the corridor to become empty, stepped into the storage room, and slipped through the hidden door to the secret chamber before anyone could come in after her. So far, to her knowledge, no one had been trying to follow her in.

In the secret chamber, the machinery was mostly as she remembered leaving it. The Implier was in the center of the room like always, directly below the apex of the vaulted ceiling. To its side was the new viewing lens, and beside that was the half-assembled tablet. Various building materials were scattered around the tables at the room's periphery.

Hizeft and Angmthanz were standing in front of the Implier. They turned to face her at once.

Dalzren stopped where she was. Rare were the times that all three of them were in this room at the same time. Whatever was transpiring, she could already tell—it was a turning point.

"Ah, there you are," Hizeft said, unsmiling. "We were waiting for you."

It took a moment for her to resume moving, and when she did, it was with a slow, deliberate wariness. "Is something wrong?"

"No, not exactly. But there has been an unexpected development. We're going to have to stop at four Elder Scrolls. Not five."

"Four," Dalzren repeated. "All right. Can you tell me more?"

"I can tell you that we've begun to attract the wrong kind of attention. From outside Mzulft. Based on my information, our project could come under attack at any time—and our city in the process. The next Elder Scroll we obtain will be our last."

"Will that be enough for whatever you have planned?"

Hizeft shook her head grimly. "I am not confident of it. Not in this room, not with this equipment. We'll need to amplify the projecting power of the scrolls we do have."

"How are we going to do that?"

"We're going to move the Elder Scrolls into the Mzulft oculory, and make use of its lens array instead."

The oculory. Dalzren hadn't entered it in many months. The highest chamber in all of Mzulft, far up the mountainside, where sunlight could collect in its optical lenses without obstruction.

"But our domain don't have unilateral control of the oculory." Dalzren glanced at Angmthanz. "And neither does the Domain of Magicka. No domain can do what you're asking. Only the Clan Chief has the authority to decide what's done with it."

"Let me worry about that," Hizeft said, entirely unfazed. "Assume that we'll have access to the oculory as soon as you need it."

"I'm aware that the oculory is in high demand among multiple domains. How long will we have access once it's available?"

Hizeft put her hands on her hips. "How quickly can you work?"

Dalzren frowned. "... I see."

She thought for a moment longer. Today was rapidly filling with unexpected developments. No doubt, as usual, there would be more to come. But she found herself hoping that this project would end soon. It couldn't be a wondrous adventure of new revelations forever. If for no other reason, sooner or later the Soul Fray would finally catch back up with her.

"I'd work more quickly if I had more help," she began. "I've only worked with the oculory a few times, and while I know its lens configuration is versatile, the scale is incredibly different. I'll have to redesign practically everything but the scroll containers themselves. How long do we need to keep this a secret from everyone?"

"Once we begin making use of the oculory, even if we withhold our purpose, it will become clear to the entire city that we've embarked on some great plan. If you require aid from other Dwemer to complete your work in a timely manner, I will leave their recruitment to your discretion. Simply remember to tell them only what they need to know."

"And naturally, it would be unlawful of them to tell anyone what they learn," Dalzren said.

"Naturally."

Angmthanz spoke up. "Speaking of matters that Dalzren needs to know…"

"Yes." Hizeft nodded, then looked to the younger Dwemer quietly, as if wondering where to start. Eventually, she asked, "Are you familiar with the myth of the Towers?"

The Towers were locations and structures within Mundus that were said to have metaphysical significance in its creation. Each was located in a different region, each with a distinct name and a distinct identity. Three of them—in Direnneth, Cyrodiil and Alinor, were literal towers. Two—in Falmereth and Dwemereth—were mountains. But they were all connected to the shape of the world in ways beyond ordinary comprehension. In other words, they were the pillars of reality.

"In broad strokes," Dalzren said.

Angmthanz said, "Every Tower has an accompanying Stone, or a more specific device or structure used to focus its Aetherial potential. The Stone of the Adamantine Tower, for example, is known as the Zero Stone, which came in the form of an event. Specifically, it was the judgment of Lorkhan and its outcome, which affects us even now. That is the best-known of them all. But in some cases, the Stone is much harder to determine. For example, the Snow Throat, the great mountain in Skyrim, is a Tower as well. What is its Stone, do you think?"

Dalzren shrugged helplessly.

Hizeft said, "Allow me to ask you another, simpler question. Why do you think Raldbthar is such a rich and powerful freehold? It is no older than the cities around it. Why does it rival the giant freeholds of the west?"

"I don't know," Dalzren said. "They have a mine, don't they?"

The Chief Designer chuckled mirthlessly. "Oh, no. Not just a mine."

Angmthanz said, "There is a cavern beneath the ice of Skyrim. Not an ordinary cave, not a pocket of ores. It is as vast as central Falmereth's plains, and filled with magic beyond reckoning. In magical terms, you might call it the empty space caused by the Snow Throat's rising from the earth. I'll give you one guess for which city it's centered underneath."

The moment that Angmthanz said 'cavern,' Dalzren knew where the statement was headed. The rest of it was only a minor detail in comparison.

She swallowed involuntarily.

The old Dwemer continued. "As you might guess, the cavern is a conduit to Aetherius. The connection there is stronger than anywhere else in Falmereth, and most places in Tamriel. They call it FalZhardum Din, but in my terms, it would be better called the Black Stone."

It was taking a moment for the sheer significance of this revelation to settle in Dalzren's mind. Somehow, by some insane defiance of nature, someone or some group of people had discovered—or perhaps theorized—the existence of a stone for the Throat of the World. And then they had determined it was a cavern beneath the ground, as well as its location, and... without a doubt, it was the most stunning victory over the caprices of magic that she'd ever heard of. And it was such a tightly kept secret that she'd never heard of it before.

She asked, "How did they know to build their city there?"

Hizeft said, "They didn't put their city over the Black Stone. They put the Black Stone under the city. It was a brutally simple operation. They used the power of an Elder Scroll, hidden in a secure vault outside the city, to shift the cavern's location beneath the earth. Its original location, we believe, was in flux already. It existed as an idea more than as a place. But it's been transfixed now, and the Dwemer of Raldbthar use it as a mining site. It gives them more riches than anyone can dream of."

The pieces came together instantly in Dalzren's mind. The first portion of the conversation, with the change in plans for their Implier project. She understood now.

"It's Raldbthar," she said aloud. "They're the ones who have learned about your plan. And you're going to steal their Elder Scroll. That's where the fourth one is coming from."

Hizeft nodded impassively. "Correct. They've been sitting on the Black Stone for too long. Enriching themselves with its magic, withholding their secrets from the rest of the Dwemer people. Our plan is to usher in a new age, with the balance of power in our hands. The right hands."

"I see." Dalzren considered this thought for a moment. She wasn't sure how she felt about it, in all honesty. It seemed awfully… disruptive. But, as she reminded herself, it also wasn't her place to be disputing these things. She was here as an assistant, not as an advisor.

Besides, she had to help. She'd come this far under the promise of curing her Soul Fray. And she'd already used the Implier once. She knew it could work. This was the worst time for that promise to be taken from her.

But another question came to mind. As an assistant, it was the most obvious to ask. "Why are you telling me this now? Why do I need to know this?"

Hizeft replied, "Because when the time comes for us to use the Implier in earnest, I don't expect any one person's will to be sufficient. I've tested it myself, and there are limits to what my focus can achieve. I expect that all three of us will need to use it at once. And we will all need to understand what our intention is."

"Which is to move the Black Stone to beneath Mzulft, yes?"

"Yes." The Chief Designer nodded once more. "As soon as you're ready, and as soon as we've obtained the fourth Elder Scroll. With any luck, the process will be quick. But we'll need to test it before then."

"When you said more riches than anyone can dream of…"

"That's a discussion for another time," Hizeft said.

"How did you learn about the Black Stone yourself?"

"That's a discussion for another time too. For now, I need to return to my day's work as Chief Designer, and I'd like you to begin determining how you will need to adapt the Implier to work in the oculory. If you need to visit it, it's not in operation today."

"As you wish," Dalzren nodded obediently. She still didn't know how she felt about all this. But as before, it seemed not to matter.

Hizeft excused herself from the room without any further comment. Dalzren and Angmthanz were left alone in the Implier's presence.

The moment the door was shut, Dalzren immediately asked, "Did you know?"

The older Dwemer blinked. "Did I know what?"

Truthfully, Hizeft had been right. This was a discussion for another time. But Dalzren couldn't help herself. She was feeling something that she didn't like. A tinge of desperation amid all the worry and focus of her work. A feeling that she was being led down a path she couldn't complete.

Would she even make it out of this alive? Even if the Soul Fray were cured, could she survive the chaos that would inevitably follow their mission's completion?

"That this was all with the goal of moving the Black Stone. That the last Elder Scroll is in Raldbthar's possession. Were you aware of these things? We've been working together for months. I had no idea."

Angmthanz chuckled dryly, running his fingers along his gilded beard. "Ahh. Yes, we have. I do apologize for the secrecy, but Hizeft was quite insistent. I had to be aware of these things. I was the one who told them to her."

"You what?"

"When I was young, I lived in Raldbthar. I fled here after a regime change when I was fifty-five. But a couple years before that, I happened to overhear the city's Chief Mage discussing lore with some subordinate. I'd seen the sealed door at the bottom of the city, with the signage for something called FalZhardum Din. But only then did I learn what it was for. I heard everything. If they'd known I was there, I wouldn't have left the room alive."

Dalzren scowled. "So you defected here with the knowledge of this secret. You betrayed Raldbthar."

"Raldbthar betrayed me. I joined Mzulft's Domain of Magicka as an ordinary mage with no special secrets divulged. Only when I began speaking to Hizeft did I realize what we could do. She has projects of her own, you see. When I understood their potential impact, the best course of action for Mzulft became clear."

This was difficult to argue with. Dalzren still felt she was reeling from the secret she had just learned. The very shape of Falmereth had changed in her mind. The shape of Tamriel had changed in her mind. And here they were, preparing to seize the advantages of that secret from another Dwemer freehold.

She asked, "What projects of her own affected your planning?"

"Hizeft had been working on many little things. I seem to recall the one that had made her Chief Designer, or helped make her such, was something called ebonglass. A sort of… ebony plating material that's always opaque on one side and transparent on the other. You'd have to ask her for the specifics. And she was doing some work on magically suspending parts of the body's functionality, for the purpose of healing. And a few other things like that. But the main one that concerns us right now is the Specter."

"I keep hearing that name thrown around," Dalzren said. "Who or what is that?"

"I don't know who, exactly. Some brave soul who volunteered to put Hizeft's inventions to work. He's going off to retrieve that Elder Scroll as we speak. That order can't be rescinded. So we'd best work quickly."

She shook her head slowly. "I'm not sure I'm the one who should be leading this project's continuation. I understand what needs to be done, but… if I'm so vital in all this, why have I been left out on so much critical information?"

Angmthanz gave her a sympathetic look. "I can see why you'd think that, with all the secrecy we've had to run through. But we need you. It is as it has always been. Everything hinges on the Implier functioning as planned, but Hizeft lacks the available time, and I the mechanical expertise, to ensure that it will. And no one else we can bring in with your skills is nearly as trustworthy."

"Because of the Soul Fray," Dalzren said. "Because if I don't do this, I will die, and my son will die too."

"No, because you're a good Dwemer with a solid head on her shoulders, and you care about Mzulft. Neither Hizeft nor myself knew about your condition when she recruited you. It's only good fortune that our project is just what you need to recover." Angmthanz clasped his hands together decisively. "I assure you, we are all the one same team, as we have always been."

Dalzren didn't know what to say to that.

"Now, shall we begin our work?"


	33. Revenge

Middas, 4:45 PM, 10th of Evening Star, 1E 173

Tower of Mzark

It had taken a long, long time to set up this ambush.

First, Emund and Yngva had spent a couple days gathering all the supplies and equipment they'd need. There was a lot. Provisions for the journey, a frost resistance necklace for Yngva, a new wooden staff from Jarl Idrun's armory—this one made of elderwood, which was incredibly expensive, but essentially unbreakable. The main thing they needed to secure, though, was a whole case full of scrolls of mass paralysis. Half a dozen of them, all ready to go. They had no idea how good the mystery agent would be at dodging regular spells, but there would be no dodging these.

Bit of a simple plan, really. Wait for the agent to come back up the lift, and then paralyze them before they could get back out.

Then, after preparing, the duo had gone out traveling for nearly a week to find the landmark in the Pale that Kelthenez had told them to watch out for—an old, abandoned worship site from before the Dragon Cult. A ring of stone columns around a large altar and low table, out in a clearing in the middle of the snowy woods, a short way off the road going south from Dawnstar. Very hard to miss, but to get there in a timely manner, they'd had to circle north around the mountains of Hjaalmarch, bringing them dangerously close to the Dwemer city of Mzinchaleft. They'd even sort of seen it on the horizon at one point.

Which, as it happened, was the first time Emund had ever laid eyes on a Dwemer settlement. Something about it put an uneasy feeling in his stomach.

But still, they made it to the worship site. And from there, they'd gone due west to the nearest mountainside, and spent nearly another week searching around for the tower they were looking for. At least in theory, they knew what it was supposed to look like, but there was no map to follow, no trail cut into the mountain, nothing like that. They were reduced to hiking and climbing over barren rock and ice amid pockets of snow and trees. It all looked the same.

And then, on the 5th of Evening Star, they'd found it. A lone structure sitting on a relatively flat portion of the mountain. It must have been twenty feet tall. Four thick pillars of stone, all supporting a massive ceiling with a tall pointed roof. The space between the pillars was filled by Dwemer metal bars, impossible to get through from the outside—even though the side facing the eastern decline of the mountain was obviously meant as a door. But inside was a circular platform with a big metal lever sticking out of the middle of the floor. It as unmistakable.

They'd found the Tower of Mzark. One of Skyrim's greatest secrets, and it was right there before them.

The next step had been to set up a surveillance site. They spent a while searching the surrounding mountainside for a good spot to observe the tower undetected. It had to be someplace where they could watch the tower doors, so it couldn't be from higher up the mountain. And it had to be someplace where the mystery agent wouldn't stumble upon them, or notice them with a life-detection spell, so it couldn't be too close by. But it also had to be someplace where Emund and Yngva could get up and run out there within a couple minutes' time, so it couldn't be too far either.

They eventually settled on a rocky outcrop due north of the tower, about a hundred yards out. Over the next couple days, the two of them built a shelter that would blend in with the environment. They dug a hole in the hard frozen earth (with the help of a lot of flame spells), gathered fallen branches from the trees below, arranged them in a low intertwined dome shape over the hole with a few more on the bottom for padding, and covered the whole thing with snow so that it looked like a natural bank. It even had a tunnel out the back, like an igloo. And in the middle of it all, Yngva put an inconspicuous Dwemer-made set of twin spyglasses, imbedded in the snow with one end out either side. They were aimed straight at the tower. If someone opened the doors, they couldn't possibly miss it.

And as a final afterthought, Emund went out and covered all their tracks around the tower. It wouldn't do for the mystery agent to realize that people had been wandering around here recently.

After that whole long arduous journey, the next few days were spent simply waiting. They slept in shifts. They left the shelter—for stretching and exercising, for bodily relief, for whatever—also in shifts, and with care not to go anywhere near the tower. It was cramped, boring and unpleasant. But hopefully, it wouldn't have to last very long. Kelthenez had probably arrived at Mzulft after they'd found the Tower of Mzark, which meant they couldn't possibly miss what was going to happen next.

Unless Kelthenez had been wrong about his theory, and this whole thing was a waste of time. That would be a sad waste of the past few weeks.

Emund hadn't liked his dreams lately. He kept seeing these disturbing things with knives and blood. Yngva told him that his sleep was fitful sometimes, which he believed. Of course, maybe part of that was because his bedroll was on top of a pile of sticks, but no one cared about that. Including him.

He'd woken up from his slumber less than an hour ago. And after a filling but utterly flavorless breakfast of Dwemer food-pieces (which were a lot like little bricks of clay, in his opinion), he had settled in to take over from Yngva on the duty of staring through the spyglasses. It always looked the same out there, but they had to keep looking. So here he was, sitting upright with his face up against the wall of the shelter, looking through both lenses and waiting to see if anything would happen.

It was the same view of the snowy slope as always. The sun was beginning to recede behind the mountaintops, and the light was turning dim. Which was fine, because this spyglasses could see fairly well in the nighttime too. Everything just looked kind of greenish because of the lens composition. Or something like that. He hadn't designed these.

Behind him, Yngva said softly, "Don't fall asleep, Gray One. I know it's tempting."

"It's not," Emund replied at the same volume, without looking away from the lenses. "I sleep for one hour a night. The rest is to lull you into a false sense of security."

"It actually doesn't lull me at all. You keep twitching and stuff."

"Well, now that you mention it, I do that to lull you into a false sense of vigilance."

This was how they had stayed sane over the past four days, sitting here in this little place. They had talked. About anything at all. Emund had heard a lot about Yngva's life. Her sweetheart Hakind, her memories of her parents—the fact that she used to be a boy. That had been a surprise.

Of course, Emund couldn't share anything about his own life, for obvious reasons. But as he thought about it, there wasn't that much to share about the life he'd had in Tvalistead. He'd chopped wood and cleaned tables. He disliked his father and enjoyed their dog. He'd liked to imagine himself as some great legendary warrior, because the reality had been so boring in comparison.

He wondered how long it would be before he started imagining himself as an ordinary villager, just to keep things varied.

Yngva was still talking. "I don't think I could be more vigilant these past few days if I tried. I have so much more sympathy for the city guards in Snowhawk now. Especially the ones on lookout duty. They have such a boring job."

"Well, it's true that they don't get to watch the goat go by. Not that I've seen it since I started watching just now."

There weren't many animals up here, but they kept seeing this one mountain goat that wandered past the tower a few times a day. It had turned into the high point of their surveillance. Waiting for the goat.

Emund hadn't expected this part of the plan to feel so subtly mad.

"I have a question," Yngva said. "But I'm not sure if you'll be able to give me the answer. Even if you want to."

So it was going to be a question about Emund's identity. He shrugged, still looking through the spyglasses. "Try me."

"You don't seem to like being the Gray One. How did you become something so unusual without trying?"

"That's … a long story. And I can't tell you most of it. I suppose, uh… the most I can say is: Someone made a mistake. I never wanted any of this. Now I'm just trying to see our mission through to the end, in hopes that someday I'll find the way to free myself again."

"And what if you don't?"

Emund laughed mirthlessly. "Well, then I guess I'll get used to wearing this mask around everywhere. I sure hope it doesn't come to that. By what I've read, it's great for stealth, and … I've gotten a lot of other powers too. It'd be difficult to explain how. But I'd probably give it all away if I could."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Think about it. What if you had the Gray Cowl? Everyone who's ever known you would forget you existed. Hakind, Drisa, the Jarl, everyone. Instead, you'd be a faceless soul that no one ever knows. Unless you put the mask on. Then everyone would think you're the same person as me, and the same person as everyone who came before me."

"... That sounds terrible," Yngva said quietly, after a few seconds. "I'm sorry."

Emund said nothing.

Some wind was picking up outside. White mists of snow billowed down the slope of the mountain. Thankfully, itt felt the same inside the shelter.

After a little while longer, Yngva spoke again. "For whatever little it's worth, I'm glad you're here. I wouldn't want to be out here by myself. Or with anyone else besides you. I don't know who you were, but you're amazing now. They, uh… they wouldn't appreciate me saying this, but you certainly fight better than either of my parents ever did. Even in a straight fight, I think you'll have good odds against the mystery agent."

"Thanks," Emund said. He still didn't feel like trying to explain the Place right then.

More time went by. The sun was hidden behind the mountaintops out there. Soon, the whole mountainside would be lit up by moonlight instead—Masser was a waxing gibbous right now, if he recalled his phases correctly—but right now, everything out there was a gloomy dark gray. Or a uniform pale bluish-green, through these lenses.

Still no sign of that goat. Maybe it'd already gone to sleep for the evening. Emund would sympathize with that.

Once again, Yngva was the one to break the silence. "I've been thinking."

"Go on," Emund said.

"Your robe is enchanted to protect you from fire and frost, isn't it?"

"And to heal me. Yes."

"And it was originally made for a dragon priest. Right?"

Emund grunted noncommittally. "We think so. Not exactly a lot of written evidence for it. Someone in the Dragon Cult, probably."

"Well … I'd originally been thinking that the fire and frost thing was ingenious for protecting you from changes in temperature. But the dragon priests were undead, weren't they? They wouldn't care about that. Undead can't freeze to death, or have heatstroke. Their bodies don't really work like that anymore."

He paused for a few seconds. Dragon priests were undead, much like draugr. "That … is actually a very good point. What are you thinking, then?"

"Obviously, the dragon priest that had your robe enchanted was trying to ward against fire and frost magic. But that also seems really suspicious. Why not shock magic, too? Any halfway-decent mage can do a shock spell."

"Maybe they had it on a ring," Emund said.

"Or maybe they weren't dealing with mages. I mean, everyone knows dragons could breathe jets of fire, but I remember reading about some dragons that breathed jets of frost instead. Always really tripped up the dragon hunters who went out there laden with gear for fire resistance."

"You think this dragon priest wanted to fight dragons? Bit of a… gigantic betrayal, isn't that?"

"It would be, indeed. And presumably that didn't end well, because there are definitely no dragon priests involved in the story of Alduin's defeat on the Throat of the World." Yngva paused briefly. "I wonder what Akatosh thought of the dragon priests. Did they serve him, or just Alduin? Or is there a difference?"

Emund snorted. "Is that what you all wonder about in Snowhawk?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, yes. You know the three spires? The Spire of Kyne, the Spire of Shor, and the Spire of Dragons? They were all built as fortified temples. And the Spire of Dragons was originally a temple to Akatosh. But I guess since Snowhawk took over after Bromjunaar, no one here really wanted to worship the dragon god. So now it's just a fortress, with no priests in it."

"I'm sure the priests would be fine if they didn't dress like me," Emund murmured.

Yngva giggled softly. "You think? That was their main problem, then? Dressing like they belonged to the Dragon Cult?"

"Wait. I'm seeing something."

Emund focused on the lenses again. A dark shape had entered his vision. It was moving quickly.

His heart skipped a beat. It was a person. A male, by the shape of the body, slender and agile. The person's body was covered from head to toe in some skintight black armor, even over the face. There were faint silvery lines—or golden, hard to tell in these lenses—running along the suit, like seams between armored plates.

The person ran straight up to the doors of the Tower of Mzark, grabbed onto the metal bars, and wrenched them open. The sound of the latch breaking was audible even from inside the shelter.

"It's the mystery agent," Emund said, pulling away from the spyglass. "Looks like Kelthenez earned that sword. Time to move."

Yngva sat upright, wide-eyed. She immediately began scrambling for her things—her helmet, the scroll case, all different items, putting them on her person.

Emund took one more look through the lens, just to make sure his eyes weren't deceiving him. The figure was already standing inside the tower. He could barely see the man—or rather, the mer, since this was definitely a living Dwemer—through the bars. But he could still follow the motion as the mer reached down and pulled the lever on the floor, promptly sinking out of sight afterward.

He pulled away again and began crawling out through the tunnel. His pale gray-white elderwood staff was laid lengthwise down the tunnel, for lack of a better place to put it. He grabbed it up on the way outside.

It felt good to stretch his muscles again. He hopped in place a couple times, getting his blood circulating, getting his heart warmed up. Behind him, Yngva crawled out and pushed herself to her feet too.

"I can't believe this is happening," she said, her voice trembling a little. "It's happening, isn't it?"

Emund didn't know what came over him. It wasn't the Place. It was just a sudden, crazy impulse. He turned around, stepped towards Yngva, and put his arms tightly around her. The next thing he knew, Yngva's arms were holding him too. It was a swift, desperately forceful embrace, for both of them. But it was warm, and it didn't feel bad.

In fact, it was a great way to end a few days of mind-numbing waiting.

And just like that, Emund let go again and said, "Let's get in position. I'll need one of those scrolls."

They took off towards the Tower of Mzark at a gentle jogging pace. It would take a minute for them to get there, even at this fairly close distance. The doors were hanging open on their hinges, swung outward and swaying gently in the snowy breeze. Presumably, on the other side was now a sheer vertical drop down to the lift platform.

As they approached, Yngva said, "It just occurred to me. We're basically going to be using some magic scrolls to obtain a better magic scroll."

"And to beat the daylights out of the mystery agent, and hopefully interrogate him." Emund didn't say it out loud, but the implied next step would be to kill the mer right here on the mountainside. He'd proven himself too dangerous to take prisoner for long.

Of course, Emund hadn't killed anyone before, and he didn't know if he could now. But he was sure the Place would have its own ideas about that.

He certainly didn't want to force Yngva to do it. That didn't seem right.

When they arrived at the tower, sure enough, the platform inside had been replaced with a stone-walled pit that descended into sheer blackness. The white snow outside made it easy to see where things were, even in the evening gloom, but there was no looking down that shaft. Emund didn't even want to go near the doors, for fear of falling in.

Yngva pulled out a couple of scrolls from her case and offered one to Emund. "Here. You take your spot, I'll take mine."

This was something they had already discussed. One scroll of mass paralysis would be more than enough, but in case either of them had trouble putting the scroll to use, they would both activate their scrolls at the same time—the instant the platform came back up into sight.

So Emund took up his position, just like they'd planned, on the nearer side of the tower. Yngva circled around to the farther side, just off-center enough to still have a line of sight to Emund. Both of them held their scrolls in one hand.

He laid his staff carefully on the ground beside himself.

It was simple. They were both out of range of each other, but within range of the lift platform. There would be no escape.

Minutes passed by. Emund's breath was fogging the air in front of himself. He wondered if that would go away if he cast an invisibility spell on himself. Or drank a potion for it, more likely. Probably not.

He wondered what was going on down inside the tower right now. What kind of security measures the mystery agent was having to work past. Maybe there was a whole team of Dwemer engineers down there right now, and the mystery agent was slaughtering his way through them all, just like he had through the Blades of Men in their own hidden underground lair. The thought gave him an unpleasant chill.

But there was nothing to do but wait. They had one chance to end this fight before it could start, and Emund intended to take it.

Another thing he wondered, though—what would they do with the Elder Scroll on the mystery agent's person? Put it back in the lift platform for the Dwemer of Raldbthar to take? He'd asked Yngva that question at one point, but she'd never really answered. Maybe some other opportunity would present itself.

A low, grinding noise began to sound from inside the tower, down in the pit. The lift platform, coming back up. It would be up here soon. Very, very soon.

Emund's throat and lungs tightened. He raised his scroll, meeting it with his free hand, preparing to pull it open. Across from him, Yngva did the same.

The platform rose into view—and the top was empty. But then it kept climbing up, and Emund realized that he was looking at the lift's inner ceiling. Below it was a second, inner set of barred walls, lined up almost exactly with the first.

And inside was the mystery agent, gold lines gleaming in the darkness. Up close, Emund could see that his helmet was faceless, without even holes for seeing or breathing. It was disturbing. And now he was wearing a white cloth bundle on his back. It was slung on a strap over his shoulder and chest, like an arrow quiver. The Elder Scroll.

The moment had come.

Emund pulled open his scroll and began charging the spell. A green glowing aura immediately began swirling around his body. He lowered his hands outward as it coalesced—he could feel it in his mind, the buildup of energy—

Inside the tower, the mystery agent glanced at him, then at Yngva. He immediately took off at a frenzied sprint out the broken doors.

Emund discharged his spell. An instant later, Yngva did the same. Two waves of alteration magic washed over the tower at the same time. The agent was caught in between them. No escape.

This was what the agent had done to so many others. Ambushed them, before they could react, before they could ready themselves. Now he could see how it felt to be on the receiving end. Emund was glad to deliver it. The Place was glad for it too.

The waves washed over the agent's body, encasing its black armor in a shimmering shell of the same glowing color. He froze in place, transfixed mid-run, tipping slowly onto his front.

Then there was a sound like shattering glass, and the shell burst apart. The agent regained his running pace instantly, and went straight for Emund.

"Typical," Emund muttered, before hooking the toe of his boot under his staff and tossing it up into his hand.

As the agent charged in, he threw a black-clad hand out to his side. It cast some sort of magic spell with a gliding flash of light, and suddenly there was a lustrous golden sword in his grasp. Long, slender, straight-bladed.

A Dwemer weapon, without a doubt.

Emund didn't wait for the agent to strike first. He feinted high, then swept his staff in sideways with a vicious swing to the ribcage. The agent parried him with the blade pointed down, which shouldn't have been enough to stop the strike—but it did.

It all happened in the blink of an eye. Emund felt the Place take over instantly. The agent spun his blade into half a dozen strikes at all different angles, and Emund parried every single one, circling swiftly around the agent's body, countering with fast swings in the very same movements as his defenses. The exchange ended when he landed a butt strike on the agent's sword arm, sending them both stepping apart once again.

The agent didn't waste a moment in coming back in. He lunged in and grabbed Emund's staff halfway up the haft, pinning it against him with the sword blade, and shoving Emund backward, forcing him to backpedal step after step.

Emund spared a fleeting glance behind him, and realized he was being pushed towards a vertical drop on the mountainside. A miniature cliff, jutting out from the stone slope, with at least ten or fifteen feet between it and the ground below. Enough to kill him? Probably not. Enough to leave him open for a killing blow? Absolutely.

He dug his heels into the ground, grabbed his staff higher up with one hand, and slammed the haft into the agent's chin. It sent the elf reeling back, breaking them apart for the second time. Emund didn't wait for him to recover. He brought his staff straight down at the agent's head.

Of course, the agent parried it, like always.

At that moment, Yngva entered the fray. Her first move was expertly done. Just as the agent was busy parring Emund's strike, she brought her Daedric sword down in a diagonal thrust, aiming to punch through the armor at the agent's neck. But somehow, the Dwemer knew it was coming. He ducked his head down, and the blade sliced down his shoulder instead.

A ripple of bright blue energy spread from the point of impact, fading away as soon as it had come.

Emund had a strange feeling, like a headache. He'd seen that energy before. He knew he had.

The agent used his forward motion to headbutt Emund in the nose. There was no chance to react. Emund felt the cartilage break, warm blood leaking out, running down his mouth. He gasped in pain, but still he moved to strike again.

It was furiously fast. Yngva on one side, Emund on the other, and the agent right in the middle, parrying and dodging and countering every strike that came his way. It was all Emund could do to keep the agent's attention from staying on Yngva too long. He was like lightning. Every time he struck, by the time Emund could reply, he was gone.

His heart raced. He was absolutely one with the Place. The Place was the master of his body and mind. Only this way could he survive.

The agent did something that, for a split second, made no sense. He trapped Emund's staff against himself with his sword, then raised his arm and let Yngva slice into it. Again, the flash of blue energy. Again, no damage. He hauled Emund forward, stepping towards Yngva, and drove his fist straight into her gut.

The blow sent Yngva sprawling on her back. Before Emund could react, the agent spun back with the same arm out, and drove the elbow into his ribs. He felt something break inside him as he staggered back. Moving the right half of his torso suddenly hurt a lot.

The agent was about to go for a killing blow. He was turning back to Yngva with his sword raised.

There was only the tiniest moment in which to react. So Emund did. He lunged forward again, and this time slammed his chest right into the agent's back. And as the agent began to recoil, he brought his staff down sideways in both hands, straight over the elf's head, locking him in a stranglehold.

He had no time. No more time to act.

Immediately, the agent forced an arm upward into the tight space, twisting to face Emund and pushing him away, hard—then as Emund was staggering back, followed it with an unstoppable kick to the chest.

He fell. For a moment, he was midair, and then his back hit the snowy ground. He slid, tumbled backwards, and with a sudden, dreadful lurch in his stomach, felt himself dropping straight off the cliff. Emund had just enough time to see the ground rushing up to meet him.

Darkness.

Blue eyes stared at him. Blue eyes in a blue mist. They were full of hatred, bursting with it, boring into him with white-hot rage.

A deep voice spoke. Not his voice. Another one, masked, low and steady.

"I don't regret what I did. The more I saw, the more I realized what you had kept from me. The secrets, the darkness, the deadly truths. You betrayed me long before—"

Enough. The voice was swallowed by the abyss.

The sun traced its path across the ecliptic, year after year, eternity after eternity. A thousand worlds lived and died. The abyss remained silent.

Then a deathly hand reached out to touch his own. And this time, it grabbed on. Its grip was like iron. But it wasn't deathly at all. It was warm and full of life, ever burning, still thinking and feeling even now. The voice was low and steady when it spoke.

"Know me again. Taste your revenge."

The blue aura thundered down on them like a waterfall, roaring over his ears, breaking over them, falling just short of tearing them apart. Everything else faded away.

Emund opened his eyes.

He was on his side, splayed out uncomfortably on cold stone ground. On a flat portion of ground, somewhere. His vision was blurry. His left ankle was throbbing painfully. So was his right side, on the ribcage. His nose was clogged with dried blood.

Wherever his staff was, he wasn't holding it.

His body didn't want to answer him. He moved anyway, forcing an arm upward, wiping most of the blood off his face. He could barely think. Everything was still blurry. His head hurt.

He'd fallen off a cliff, hadn't he? But he was still alive. Maybe he had his robe to thank for that. Or the mask, or something. Certainly not his own skill. But he had to get moving again.

There was a sound. A faint, repeating sound. He couldn't tell what it was at first.

Then his vision began to sharpen, and he instantly realized. His heart began to sink inside him, worse than it ever had in his life. It was unbearable. It was unreal.

Right in front of Emund's face, right there on the ground, was a puddle of dark red blood. It was rippling gently outward, every few seconds, when another drop of blood fell and joined it.

He forced himself to turn. Forced himself to look upwards. He didn't want to look, but he had to.

At the top of the cliff, there was a body slumped halfway over the edge, one arm hanging lifelessly outward. A body, covered in steel armor, with blood dripping from an ugly red gash across its throat.

Yngva's body.

Emund didn't wake up again. It was real.


	34. Loyalty and Betrayal

Loredas, 6:37 PM, 6th of Evening Star, 1E 173

Mzulft

It had been a long day at work.

Dalzren had spent the entire thing slowly dismantling the component pieces of the Implier, removing each Elder Scroll shell from the central assembly, removing the numerous mobile lenses on their armatures—really, the only thing she hadn't touched was the central lens sphere, because they were going to be replacing it with a much larger version of the same.

But all of the removed pieces were still sitting in the secret room. For one matter, the Implier project was still a secret, but for another, there was simply nowhere else to put them. The oculory was not yet available. Whenever it was, Dalzren would need to clear everyone out of the entire upper level of the Hall of Design, so as to move the pieces without undue scrutiny from bystanders.

Because as everyone knew, any bystander could potentially be an enemy spy. Dalzren was glad that most Dwemer in Mzulft didn't have to think that way, but it was true. The Dwemer of Raldbthar may have realized that their Elder Scroll was in danger of being stolen, but that was no reason to let everyone in Falmereth to know the extent of Mzulft's plans.

Needless to say, she was looking forward to a relaxing evening at home. Amalest needed her, and at this point, Dalzren was starting to feel like she needed Amalest in kind.

Unfortunately, they didn't have long together, because there was a special meeting in the debate hall this evening, and Hizeft had insisted that Dalzren attend. It would be the first time in two months.

"Thank you," Amalest said, putting down his fork and knife decisively on his empty plate. "For going to the trouble of cooking all this in the first place, I mean."

Dalzren smiled and did the same. "You'll get to it in the Hall of Learning eventually."

Today's dinner had been simply the leftover portion of yesterday's. Dalzren had promised her son a good meal, and so she had purchased, among other ingredients, a cut of beef—the sirloin, as she understood the terminology. There had been enough for four servings, so she had placed half in the cooler, and cooked the other half to a tender pink, with sides of honey-glazed carrots and mushroom salad. It had been her first time handling beef in a year or so, but it had been delicious to the last bite.

It didn't hurt that she'd been able to season it with some of the new spices from the Ayleid envoys. In Mzulft, where the Domain of Husbandry much preferred to raise fish in place of the costlier land creatures, any meat from a land creature was a notable expense. It seemed worthwhile.

Amalest drained the last of his tea before saying, "I'm a little surprised that no one designs automatons to do all this. Cooking is a lot of work."

"Oh, they do. All sorts of things in the production process are automated. But the preparation of food is an oft-overlooked part of a thoughtful life. It's an exercise in blending the technical with the personal. And, though this might be my own bias speaking, it's quite entertaining."

"You? Biased?" Her son laughed. "You're really lucky. You get to work on machines all day. You don't have to hear what kind of biases people have around here."

"Mmm, you might be surprised," Dalzren said, though she was already starting to worry about their line of conversation. Soon, she would be paying a visit to the debate hall. She didn't want to consume her evening with politics before then.

"May I clear your place?"

"Yes. Thank you very much."

Amalest scooped up both of their plates, stacked them together, and collected the cups before taking them all to the autosan, along the back wall of the living room. "I'm really hoping I can join the Domain of Design when I'm older. I don't care what they say in the Hall of Learning. Mzulft is always going to need good designers."

"That's very true," Dalzren said. "Although I wonder what domains your peers in the Hall of Learning actually do approve of."

Her son scratched his head as he turned around again. He felt the need to straighten out his braids with his fingers afterward. "I don't know. Administration, maybe? Commerce, Home, a few others. They like disciplines that are about cooperation. Not disciplines that are about strength. Design, Security, War, those ones."

Dalzren frowned. "All of those domains involve tremendous cooperation as well. In fact, every domain does. I'm not sure I follow their reasoning."

"Well, don't look at me, mother!" Amalest held his arms out wide. "I didn't come up with it. All I want to do is keep doing my work, but apparently, that's too much to ask. I'm still trying to smooth everything over after the…" He faltered briefly, lowering his arms again. "… you know, the suspension."

"I think you've gone through enough punishment for all of that." She raised her gloved hand in a gesture of restraint. "You've been doing an excellent job of your work. I only ask that you continue at it."

Amalest nodded slowly. "Yes. That's the only thing. I have to get back to trying to live my life, don't I? It's what you want me to do. I'm trying to… live, here."

Despite being haunted by the shadows of his mother's failing health, in other words. Dalzren had never admitted to it out loud, and she wouldn't even now, but she suspected that somehow Amalest knew she wasn't getting better. That her Soul Fray attack hadn't been an isolated incident in the first place, and that there would very likely be more to come.

Inevitably, in fact.

"It's what we should both be doing," Dalzren said. "Although unfortunately, I'll need to leave that for after the meeting tonight. My work has kept me busy, and I'd love to spend the evening here, but we'll have to save the rest of our festivities for later."

Her son snorted mirthfully. "Festivities. Alright. Well… I suppose, uh… good luck out there?"

Dalzren was glad that the boy wasn't in any worse spirits than he was in. Clearly, it was the pleasant dinner taking effect. Or else he simply didn't feel that blind terror at the idea of his mother not coming home. She wouldn't second-guess it.

But unfortunately, it was time to leave. She stood up and began putting on her public attire—a fresh pair of footwraps, but otherwise the same jewelry and finery that her office always demanded. Thankfully, with her mechanically-assistive gloves in action, she could do all of this herself easily.

When she had dressed fully, she said, "I'll be back as soon as it's done. Be sure to get an early start on your studying, and we'll have the day off together tomorrow. Alright?"

Amalest walked over to her and wrapped his arms around her waist. "Alright," he murmured, his voice muffled halfway against her front. "Be safe out there, mother."

"Always."

And with that final exchange, Dalzren left for the corridors outside.

It was much quieter in Mzulft than when she had come home. Most of the residents were in their own places of living, either in single homes like Dalzren's, or in the communal living spaces for the lower-income workers. She walked through the main corridors and ascended the great ramps with only a handful of passersby.

This was aided by the fact that many of the people who would be out at this time were walking in the same direction as her—up to the debate hall, where the meeting was scheduled to be held at 7:30 tonight. It was additionally aided by the fact that Dalzren was making her ascent very early. Although domain workers received preferential treatment in the debate hall's seating arrangements, she liked to be among the first arrivals there, so as not to seem rude to the other Dwemer in attendance.

Nevertheless, the walk offered her plenty of time to think. She didn't quite appreciate it, given what lay before her. For two months, Dalzren had been absent from the debate hall meetings, and she hadn't missed it—the politics, the endless rhetorical circles, the vicious backstabbing. She was a designer, not an administrator. They were a waste of time that she had only partaken in out of some sense of civic duty.

And today was no exception. She simply had to be there this time.

Dalzren might have been suffering as of late, but she wasn't witless. Yesterday, Hizeft had told her of a change in plans that required unilateral control of the oculory. Today, Hizeft was bringing her along to a debate hall meeting. She knew where this was going. The only question that remained was how it would happen. Would Hizeft unveil her plans herself, or invite Angnthamz and Dalzren down to the stage with her? How much would she explain? Would Mzulft find itself on the way to war with Raldbthar as a result of the Specter's aggression?

That last thought was particularly chilling. Dalzren had never seen Mzulft fully committed to a war with an outside power, but they had had their share of raids and disputes with other freeholds. She knew the pressure of being told to better fortify Mzulft's defenses, to better arm its warriors, to prevent more Dwemer of Mzulft from dying than necessary. But some always would. Wives would lose their husbands. Children like Amalest would lose their fathers. There would be mourning and grief on a perversely large and uniform scale. If it lasted long enough, war would devastate everyone but the few individuals who chose whether or not to wage it.

Of course, there were legal processes involved in going to war. The Domain of State would have to make a formal declaration, and the Domain of War would have to rally its professional warriors to fight. But Hizeft had circumvented all of those by sending out the Specter. If she wasn't careful, this meeting could end with her own arrest. Perhaps she would be turned over to Raldbthar for their interpretation of justice.

Perhaps Dalzren would be sent with her. After all, she was an accomplice in this secret scheme.

Her throat tightened. She continued walking.

The debate hall was surprisingly close to the top of the city—far away from the residential complexes, but nearby the Hall of Design, among other places. There were already a few Dwemer gathered outside its great double doors, wearing various domain uniforms, speaking in hushed tones about matters only they knew. Dalzren ignored them and sidled her way inside.

It was a gigantic room, lit brightly all throughout by a multitude of white lamps. The debate hall was a single-room amphitheater, with a semicircular stage surrounded by a seemingly endless ascent of curving benches. Three stairways cut through the seating at regular intervals, widening briefly halfway up around stone columns for the vaulting ceiling high above. There were three separate entrance doors, one for each stairway. Dalzren had just come through the center one.

Many of the seats were still empty, but a cluster of black-robed figures had already taken up the front couple of rows, with assorted workers and officials scattered higher up. Dalzren walked carefully down the stairs, past the stone pillar, taking a seat in the fourth row up. No one was beside her.

There were no clocks in this place, but Dalzren estimated the meeting would not be held for another thirty minutes at least. She had arrived early.

And so she waited. She sat quietly in her seat, and waited as more and more Dwemer began to fill in around her. A few strangers from other domains crowded in on her left and right, not speaking to her. From time to time, she glanced over her shoulder to see how many people had arrived.

It was quite a lot. By her estimate, half the seats had filled within the next ten minutes. The citizens in attendance were pouring through all three entrances, filing into every available seat. After twenty minutes, the entire room was full.

No one spoke. There was only the faint, reverberating ambient noise of Mzulft's machinery. Something would happen today.

Then the official speakers entered. They were a whole retinue, walking down the center stairway in single file. The Clan Chief, his bodyguards, the Chief Administrator, the Chief Diplomat—and the Chief Designer. They walked down right past Dalzren, past the domain members below. The domain chiefs took up their reserved seats in the very front row, the bodyguards stood in front of the back wall, and the Clan Chief took up a position in the center of the stage.

"My fellow citizens," Clan Chief Harsinc called out. It was a pleasure to hear his voice again. And to see his thoroughly-gilded attire again. "I bid you thanks for joining me on this evening. May we remain true to the ways of logic as we proceed into today's discussion."

And so, once again, it began.

"We have come to a turning point in the history of our city. As you all are aware, the diplomats of Mzulft have participated in negotiations with multiple Nord leaders—determining new foreign goods to import, identifying which of our wares are safe to export, agreeing on fair pricing, and establishing safeguards to ensure that our offers will always be honored. And I'm pleased to announce that our efforts have been a success. Trade caravans are scheduled to leave Mzulft starting in the new year.

"Now, as always, I'm aware that not everyone has been so happy with this turn of events. Many of you have believed from the beginning that the new trade initiative will fail. Naturally, as any self-respecting Dwemer would, my colleagues and I in Administration welcome your intelligent discourse. But let's be clear: The decision has been made. The trade arrangements are moving forward. There have been calls to withdraw immediately, to renege on our commitments with the Nord race. Well, this is the due process.

"But even that doesn't take all of my concern on this issue. What we're looking at is a logical error. The product of an assumption, ingrained into our minds so much that we take it for granted. We've all assumed that the Nords don't care about us. It's a fair idea, isn't it? We're hiding here in our city, worshiping the false idols of reason and logic? That's how they put it, right?"

There was a light, nervous ripple of laughter through the hall.

"We've agreed to the trade arrangements. Not only are the Nord leaders aware of that, but so are those who follow them, and those who listen to their followers. The idea is out there: The Dwemer of Mzulft have opened their doors for business with the outside world. And yet some among us still clamor to withdraw immediately. Who knows? At another time, that may become necessary—and there are proper steps to take if that time comes. But now is not that time. If we close our doors the moment they open, without giving the Nords even a chance to prove themselves, we'll show ourselves to the world as a divided city.

"The Nords do care about us. They're watching to see what we have to offer. But they're also watching to see where we fall short. Now is the time to present a united front. If we don't—if we instead show that we can't come to a consensus on a proper course of action—then this otherwise meaningless prophecy of Nords exploiting Mzulft will become self-fulfilling. Those Dwemer who call for withdrawal now will only bring about the fall of our own city."

Harsinc let this thought linger in the air for a few seconds. There was dead silence in the amphitheater.

"Now, my domain chiefs would like to offer their perspectives on this same experience. And for the sake of clarity: I have not asked any of them to side with me in this discussion. I welcome intelligent discourse, and I invite it here and now. With that, I give the stage to Chief Designer Hizeft."

Dalzren swallowed. There were over thousand people here, and yet she was still one of three people in the entire room—at most—who understood what was coming. No one else knew yet.

Down on the stage, Harsinc stepped forward and took a seat among the other domain chiefs, while Hizeft rose up. The young golden male, replaced with the gaunt white female. How different they were.

Hizeft turned and addressed the crowd immediately. Her voice was thin, almost raspy with age, but clear and strong nonetheless. Dalzren was close enough to see the look on her face—to see the resolve in her eyes.

"Good evening," she began. "I apologize if I'm difficult to hear. I've never been much of an orator, but I'll do my best. This is an important, uncertain time, and the people of Mzulft must have their turn to speak.

"So, we've been talking about trade with Nords. Let me be the first to confess: I've only loosely followed the events of the trade arrangements. To be honest, they're simply not a great concern of mine. From day to day, I work only for the betterment of Mzulft. I help my designers with their new projects, and I make sure the resources we receive from other domains and workers are put to good use. Certainly, I attend these debate hall meetings, but I don't know more about these new deals with foreigners than any of you do. That's something for the deal-making minds of Mzulft to follow.

"But there is something I do know, and I don't have any fancy way of saying it. What I know is this: These trade arrangements don't matter. We already know the Nords aren't going to honor them. They're going to let Mzulft burn, and it's going to be other Dwemer who burn it."

There were a few gasps throughout the room. Hizeft looked on grimly.

"Let me explain," she said, and then reached into her robes. She pulled out a long, slender bluish object, which upon closer examination appeared to be a fragment of stone. It looked like the sort that would be broken off of a larger workpiece during the initial rough stonecutting. But its coloration was like no stone that Dalzren had ever seen, from the most common shale to the most precious diamond. It gleamed with a dozen different colors in this white light, but was a pure bright blue beneath.

"This is Aetherium. Raw, unworked Aetherium. Many Dwemer have posited the existence of a material that would embody the essence of the Aetherial plane. It wouldn't capture Aetherial energy like a soul gem—it would be Aetherial energy, in material form. There's no limit to what that substance could do. Or there wouldn't be, if the material existed. That's what we in Mzulft have always believed. But here I stand, holding a piece of that very substance in my hand."

Dalzren's mouth opened silently. She was wrong. She hadn't understood what was coming.

"And yes, this is truly the material in question. The theory has been confirmed. In fact, it has been for some time now. But it's been a tightly held secret, only known to the highest echelons in the Domain of Design. I'm telling you about it this evening because you need to understand what's ahead of us. The Dwemer are coming, and the Nords need only sit back and watch.

"Some years ago, our most covert agents located a sample of this stone in an abandoned Nord warehouse. At first, we believed that it was an old Atmoran discovery. But then we found another in a cache of stolen Dwemer artifacts. The Atmorans of old had raided one of the Dwemer freeholds and scattered their spoils across Falmereth. And that freehold was Raldbthar."

Hizeft put away the piece of stone, allowing her to gesture with both hands.

"Have any of you wondered why Raldbthar is such a prosperous city? Why their light shines so much more brightly than ours, despite all our strength and collective wisdom? Their mines have access to this stone. We have no idea what steps they have taken to refine it, to put it to use. Imagine an army of automatons with this material powering their cores, suffusing their armor. They could be all but indestructible."

As Hizeft spoke, the tempo of her speech was picking up, gaining intensity. New life was entering her words. It was mesmerizing and fierce, and it would have captivated Dalzren completely, except that she was instead left feeling numb horror. This wasn't what she had expected in the slightest. This was far, far worse.

This was how the Chief Designer planned to secure the Mzulft oculory for her use. She wasn't going to share any of her actual plans. She was only going to scare the whole city into submission. Then anything would be possible.

"I don't know why Raldbthar would care about us now. But if I were made to guess, I would say it's the trade arrangements. After all, it's not merely the Nords who have heard about our new negotiations. The other Dwemer out there have heard the same. Now we've gotten Raldbthar's attention, and they don't want us to prosper. Maybe the Nords would've honored their agreements with us—I don't know. But I have conclusive proof that Raldbthar plans to interfere. They're making a counter-offer to the High King of Skyrim. They trade him some of their priceless Aetherium, and in return, the High King clears the way for Raldbthar to send an army to Mzulft.

"Now, none of you need to panic. Not yet. The army hasn't been deployed yet. Raldbthar is still assembling it. But because of our insistence on opening these trade arrangements, we now have another freehold about to collapse ours on top of us. Make no mistake—a storm is coming. All this talk of trade is nothing in comparison. The Domain of War has its work cut out for it. But we in the Domain of Design stand by your side, and we will defeat the enemy whenever they come. All of us are the citizens of Mzulft, and we are strong."

Dalzren could only imagine what thoughts were going through Clan Chief Harsinc's mind at that moment. He must have known of absolutely none of this. How could he run a state effectively, with these secrets being kept from him? How could the Domain of Design presume to put foreign intelligence in its purview?

She already knew the answer. Hizeft's story of Raldbthar's aggression had been a lie. There would be an attack force coming for them, but not because of the trade arrangements. It would be coming for them because they stole Raldbthar's Elder Scroll.

There was only silence in the amphitheater. Stunned, horrified silence. Mzulft was looking at a war, one that would be averted only if Hizeft and her secret colleagues used the Implier perfectly. Everyone else in the room lacked even that promise.

They didn't know. And they wouldn't know. This project would be a secret until the very moment it finished.

Hizeft put her hands on her hips. "With that, I give the stage to Chief Warrior Neligal. She has some instructions for all of you."


	35. A Future Lost

The red horizon was made of fire. Smoke drifted into the air. Screams echoed in the distance, across the valley.

The girl stood still in her field, by her tree. She didn't understand what she was seeing.

One of the grown-ups was running. One of the men, the strangers her parents had told her about. He was running towards her, up the hill. He had black and red all over his body. His clothes were covered in it.

It was scary. The girl wanted to run away. She needed to find her dog and find her parents and leave. Whatever this was, she didn't like it.

She heard herself ask, "What's happening?"

The man shouted three words to her. At the top of his lungs, he shouted.

And then the arrows began to rain from the sky. Golden-tipped arrows, sailing in from far away. She could only watch.

Blue eyes watched like a hawk up above. The dead hand was the living hand now. No fragmented memories could hide it.

Sundas, 1:10 PM, 14th of Evening Star, 1E 173  
Snowhawk

Emund didn't want to go west. He wanted to go east, towards Mzulft. He wanted to end this.

But there were reasons to go this way. He had to come back to Snowhawk. To resupply, to tell someone where he was going. To deliver the news of the mission's outcome.

Yngva was dead. There would be blood to pay. But not yet.

He made the trip back west in a cold, tireless fury. His energy lasted him three days, with only an hour each night to rest. It shouldn't have been possible, but the Place allowed it of him. It wanted this over with.

If he'd had the option, Emund would have brought Yngva's body back with him. But it was too heavy, and the distance too long. He would have been bringing back a half-rotten falling-apart corpse. The best he could do was to remove her armor and take her down to the foot of the mountain. He'd buried her body under an anonymous evergreen tree, using the shovel they'd brought to dig up their hideout.

Hakind should have been there for it. Everyone should have been there for it.

Though if Emund were having his wishes granted, this shouldn't have happened at all. Yngva should have been alive right now.

On the third night of travel, on a lonely mountainside over Hjaalmarch's swamps, Emund collapsed onto his knees. His body was ablaze. He could take it no longer. He awoke the next morning covered in snow, his muscles still aching and throbbing madly, the sun only barely up in the east. His travel resumed just like before. The pain in his body was irrelevant.

He reached Snowhawk in the afternoon. It was just as he remembered from his first visit—the great stone walls in the distance, the four peaks of the spires and palace inside. Apparently, every time Emund visited this city, it was immediately after somebody very important to him died.

It would have been nice if he'd ever visited this place in his old life. He would have had some memory of Snowhawk that wasn't tainted by tragedy.

Still, he passed in through the city gates, and entered the bustle of the afternoon streets. For this portion, he had his mask off, letting the sun shine on his full face. With the mask off, of course, no one could recognize him. He was nobody. It meant that he went completely ignored by everyone around him, from guards to beggars to peddlers to passersby. And in turn, Emund was free to ignore them as well. He had a mission to follow.

Whitehorn Hall was where he remembered it. The last time he'd been here, Emund had spent a while scouting the city and figuring out where to wait for the two adventurers' arrival. Now he walked through the same streets on an exact, rehearsed route. He suspected it would be the last time that he'd do this.

When he reached the porch of the stone building, he finally pulled his mask back on. Then he unslung his oversized haversack and lifted out Yngva's helmet.

He swallowed. This was not going to be a high point in his life.

With his free hand, Emund reached up and knocked three times on the door.

The wait time was remarkably short. Not even ten seconds later, he heard the lock unlatch. The door swung open, and there stood Drisa, the elderly Nord woman in charge of tending the house. Her apron was covered in soot. She must have been busy just now. Behind her, the hearth was burning bright in the main room.

Emund opened his mouth silently. He realized suddenly that in all the time spent traveling here, he hadn't figured out what he would say to anyone.

There was a brief moment where the two of them were just staring silently at one another. It was just long enough that Emund began to wonder if coming to Snowhawk had been a mistake.

Then Drisa's face went pale as snow. She fell to her knees and let out a low, agonized cry. Emund had never heard a cry like it in his entire life.

"I'm sorry," Emund said without thinking.

From inside, Divayth's voice called out, "What is this? What's going on?"

Emund stepped back and picked up his haversack, bringing it just over the threshold and dropping it again. "It's me," he called out to Divayth. "I've returned."

He kicked the door shut behind him. No one on the street needed to see what was happening in here. His heart was already in the bottom of his stomach. He already felt like he was going to be sick. It would only get worse from here.

Drisa began to compose herself almost immediately. She pushed herself aside to a wall, taking deep breaths in and out, before starting to climb back to her feet. Nord strength at work. Dealing with calamitous news.

In the main room ahead, Divayth had been sitting in one of the chairs by the hearth. Now he was standing, hands at his sides, staring at Emund with worried eyes. "Gray One. What happened? Where's Yngva?"

The Chimer already knew. He had to. But he wouldn't accept it until Emund said it.

"We found the Tower of Mzark," Emund began hesitantly. "We laid the ambush exactly as planned. And the mystery agent showed up, just like we'd predicted. But when we went in to capture him … he overpowered us almost instantly. He escaped. And…" He swallowed. "Yngva's dead, Divayth. I'm sorry."

"No." Divayth shook his head. But he looked like he'd just been struck in the face. 'Stunned' was too small a word. He was struggling to make coherent words come out. "No. … n … no, you're… you're lying."

Emund held up the leather and steel object in his hands. "I'm not. This is her helmet. She fought bravely, Divayth, but our enemy was too strong—"

"You're LYING!" Instantly, Divayth's voice turned to a frenzied scream. He lunged forwards and grabbed Emund's robes by the collar, forcing the Nord to step backward. He was snarling right in Emund's face, still screaming hysterically at the top of his lungs. "YOU KILLED HER, YOU KILLED HER!"

The Place wanted to react. But Emund forced himself to be calm. He grabbed hold tightly of Divayth's hands, prying them slowly off of his robes. "I tried to save her," he said, as evenly as he could. "I'm sorry. I cared about her too."

"NO! No…!" Divayth's face contorted with grief. He pounded his fists helplessly against Emund's chest once, then collapsed heavily against him, sobbing. He kept saying the word 'no' the whole time, drawn out with anguished gasps for breath.

Emund didn't know what to do. His thoughts were coming apart, consumed by a horrible cutting feeling of guilt. There was nothing for him to do. He held onto Divayth's hands with his own, standing still, saying nothing.

He hadn't been the one to cut Yngva's throat. But someone had. And if he hadn't brought the Aetherial stone here to Snowhawk, none of this would have happened. If he'd brought it to Winterhold, he might have even been able to continue his mission. But he hadn't, and now a good young woman was dead for it.

He felt so sick.

Eventually, Divayth pulled away from him and staggered back to the chairs by the hearth. Tears were streaked all down his face. He slumped down on the nearest chair, still quivering with silent grief.

Emund turned to look at Drisa. The old woman was standing upright now, staring at the wall, still taking deep breaths. "I trully am sorry," Emund said. "I tried my hardest."

Drisa nodded gently. Her expression had gone neutral. "I know. It's a fate that befalls all warriors someday. I'm going to need to go to the Snow Palace to tell the Jarl and her son. Afterward, there will be affairs to sort through. I hope you can wait in town long enough for that."

"Alright," Emund nodded blankly. Just as he hadn't known how to react to the devastation this news had wreaked, he didn't know how to react to Drisa's controlled calmness.

It must have taken so much fortitude on her part. She must have known Yngva for the girl's entire life—looked after her when her parents were away, cooked her food, cleaned her clothing, been there whenever Yngva needed her. But she hadn't been there when Yngva had needed the most help of all. Emund could only hope that Drisa wasn't blaming herself.

Drisa left through the front door without another word.

Emund walked over and sat down by the hearth, opposite Divayth. He barely felt the warmth of its flames. Once he was seated, he laid Yngva's helmet on the floor beside himself, not knowing where else to put it.

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a minute. There wasn't much to say. Yngva had died. She was gone. That fact was a way to end a conversation, not start one.

Then Divayth spoke. His voice was flat, almost emotionless. "How did it happen? Her death?"

Emund let out a short breath. That wasn't something he'd wanted to answer. "The mystery agent resisted our paralysis spells. We began fighting, and he kicked me off a, uh… I guess a kind of short clifftop. The impact knocked me out. When I woke up again, Yngva was dead on the clifftop above me."

The Chimer's tone didn't change. "Then how are you alive, Gray One?"

"I don't know," Emund admitted. "I think the mask protected me. Kept me hidden after I fell. The mystery agent must've thought I fell much farther down, or… something. When I woke up, it was all over with. He'd already run off with the Elder Scroll."

"So he did actually get the Elder Scroll."

"He did. I guess the people in Raldbthar aren't going to be happy about this."

"Screw the people in Raldbthar. I'm not happy about this. If you hadn't dragged Yngva off on your stupid quest, she'd still be alive." Divayth trailed off, staring into space. "… I should've been there. I could've helped her escape. Could've thrown down a frost atronach or some other spell. I shouldn't have trusted you to look after her yourself."

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Emund stared down at the floor.

It was difficult to argue with any of his points. This whole quest of his had been one setback after another. The choice to come here to Snowhawk, to meet Yngva again, had been a good start. It had given him vital information, and had allowed him to coordinate the plan with Kelthenez to bluff Mzulft into acting early. But that plan had failed. Yngva was dead. The Blades of Men's farmland stronghold had been wiped out. Emund still didn't even know why they'd wanted that blue Aetherial stone—he likely never would, now. And amid it all, he was still no closer to having his curse removed.

Everything had fallen apart. By any standard, the Dwemer of Mzulft were getting exactly what they wanted.

"I don't think she wanted looking after," he eventually said.

"I don't care," Divayth replied without missing a beat.

Difficult to argue indeed. Emund stood up. "I'll be right back," he said. "I need to head back out before long. Need to resupply."

The Chimer waved a dismissive hand at him. "Whatever you want. Just… get out of here."

Over the next twenty minutes or so, Emund did nothing but prepare. He restocked his food from the larder, taking some for himself to eat on the spot—just plain bread, he didn't care for more. He changed his clothes out for fresh ones from the Thane's room upstairs, washed himself, shaved his face, all the things he'd neglected over the past days. His head was starting to throb with the ache of fatigue, but he ignored it and continued.

When he exited the room onto the upstairs balcony, he was feeling much less physically burdened. That was the most he could say for himself.

Hakind was sitting by the hearth.

The boy had come dressed in simple pure black. Mourner's clothes. He was seated next to Divayth, head in his hands. His brown hair was hanging in front of his face. Divayth was right up by him, a hand on the boy's shoulder. He was murmuring something quietly.

Yngva's helmet was no longer on the floor. It was gone.

Emund began walking down the stairs in silence. Drisa was nowhere to be seen, despite that she should have been back as well.

Even though he hadn't spoken, the steps still creaked beneath his feet. That was sign enough of his arrival. Hakind looked up at him, pushing his hair back into place. His eyes were heavily reddened, his face flushed. "Gray One," he said shakily. "I came as fast as I could."

"You didn't have to," Emund said as he reached the ground floor. "I wouldn't have demanded your presence for this."

Hakind frowned at him in confusion. Tears were welling up in his eyes. They must have been flowing this entire time. "But I wanted to see you. I had to come."

Divayth leaned back from Hakind and put his hands in his lap, staring off to the side sullenly.

"Alright." Emund returned to his seat across from the Chimer, looking between the two others. "I'm sorry, Hakind. I truly am. I … don't even know what to say about this."

Hakind said nothing.

"You're right, though," he added, "that I'll be leaving before long. I have to finish this mission."

The Nord boy rubbed his eyes and asked, "How are you going to succeed? The agent already defeated you once, with Yngva by your side. Are you going to defeat him alone?"

Emund shook his head slowly. "I don't know. But someone has to end this. Whatever they're going to do with that scroll in Mzulft, they'll have to do it soon. For this one, I think I'll be better off by myself. Wouldn't want to risk anyone else's life for it anyway."

In truth, of course, he wouldn't be entirely alone in his mission. The Place would still be guiding him. And it wanted blood even more than he did.

The stairs began creaking again. It was Drisa. She was walking down the stairs with four wooden boxes stacked in her arms. Small, flat, hinged things, like for holding fine stationery.

"Welcome back," Emund said. "What are those?"

"For you," Drisa replied simply, then came up close and began handing boxes to each of them. One for Emund, one for Divayth and one for Hakind. The fourth, it seemed was for herself, because she sat down in the last chair with it in her lap.

Emund took his box in both hands. It was very light. On top of it was an inked label reading "Gray One."

He opened it. Inside was a paper letter, folded once over—and nothing else. He began reading immediately.

Gray One,

I'm writing this on the 19th of Sun's Dusk. Tomorrow, we'll be leaving for the Tower of Mzark, and I don't know if either of us will come back. If you're reading this letter, it means that I'm dead or missing.

First of all: Oops.

Second of all: If you're reading this letter, it also means that you've survived, and that you've made it back to Snowhawk. I'm glad one of us did, at least. I'm not sure whether you succeeded in capturing our mystery agent, but that doesn't change what I want to say next.

I'm not going to tell you to abandon your mission. If I were the lone survivor of that encounter, I doubt I would either. But whatever you do, please don't lose yourself in avenging me. With any luck, I'll have earned my place in Sovngarde—but that's based on my actions, not yours. Save Skyrim if you must. Work for those terrible people in Winterhold if you have no choice in the matter. But don't forget why you're doing this. It wasn't for me before, and it shouldn't be now.

After all, when I went off trying to find vengeance for my parents, that didn't turn out so well. I'm not confident I would have even felt better for it.

I wish I had the chance to know who you really are. Truth be told, I'm not even sure how you ended up with that secret group (which I will not name) in the first place. I imagine you might like to rid yourself of that mask's curse, and I have high hopes that one day you will. In my experience, however, who you are is defined by what you do. And even as the Gray One, I know you're capable of doing good in this world. Don't forget that.

Before you go, speak with Drisa. I revised my will to include you in it. She'll have something for you.

Sincerely,  
Yngva

Emund lowered the piece of paper onto his lap, then folded it back.

That was an awful lot of advice coming from a dead person. He didn't know what to make of it. Apparently, Yngva had really cared about what Emund would end up doing with his true self.

He looked across the fire at Divayth.

The Chimer had already finished his letter. Now he was holding something else that had been in his box. A long, looped silver chain, with a dozen or so moonstone discs threaded through it. Emund recognized them from his reading studies—they were Falmer currency. Moon rings. Legal to own, but illegal to trade.

Hakind was staring at the discs with an inscrutable expression. In his open box, the piece of paper was still folded. He hadn't even begun to read it.

Emund asked, "What's that about?"

Across the hearth, Divayth shook his head. Tears had begun to run down his face again. He dropped the moon rings, chain and all, into one of the pockets of his robe. "It's nothing," he muttered. "Just a stupid thing."

"Yngva left a will," Drisa said, interrupting the moment. "She and I had it notarized before you left with her, Gray One. All of us have places in it. It's painful to say, but we were the only people who truly mattered to her in life."

Neither Hakind nor Divayth reacted.

"Let's look at that another time," Emund said, after it became clear that they weren't going to talk.

It occurred to him that of everyone in the room, he'd had by far the least connection to Yngva. Divayth had been a close friend of hers for months. Hakind had been her lover for more than a year. Drisa had been her caretaker for her entire life. And amid all that, Emund was practically just a visitor. He supposed it meant he was a little less devastated than the others in the room over Yngva's death.

He tried to take advantage of it by talking reasonably. "You're not in a hurry. I might need to leave soon, but you can stay here. Yngva needs a funeral. Someone has to attend it."

"We don't have a body," Hakind said miserably. "She's already gone. There's nothing now."

Divayth asked, "What did you even do with the body, Gray One? Did you leave her in the snow?"

Emund shook his head. "I buried her. I couldn't bring her so far back, and I couldn't just leave her, so… I'm sorry if I cheated you out of a proper burial here. If you want, when all of this is over, I can come back and take you to where I did it. It's under an evergreen tree at the foot of the mountain."

Hakind closed his eyes and let out a low, wordless noise.

He'd just heard about the love of his life being buried in the ground. It was painful to even imagine from his point of view.

"I'm probably going to leave soon," Emund added.

Drisa asked, "How soon?"

"As soon as possible. And I'm really, genuinely sorry about that. I'd love to stay with you in this time. But I have to finish what Yngva and I started. I expect I'll leave as soon as I've prepared for more traveling. It's honestly that urgent."

"I understand. Yngva left you a sword, if you're interested."

Emund scratched at the back of his head, up under the mask. "Not her Daedric sword, I take it. That's in with her armor."

"No. A ceremonial weapon. The Sword of Hjaalmarch." Considering everything going on, Drisa was still speaking awfully calmly. Emund had no idea what she was thinking or feeling right then. "Thane Sirese received it with her title. Yngva thought that whenever you free yourself of your curse, you could use it to prove yourself as an ally to certain people."

"Then I'll be sure to take it with me. I'm sorry again that I can't stay longer."

"I'm not going anywhere," Hakind said, opening his eyes. He glanced sideways at Divayth. "What about you?"

"I'll stay long enough to look at whatever's in the will," the Chimer said. "But I think I'm done here. I think I'm done. I'm going to leave tonight. Luck permitting, I won't be seeing anyone here again."

The room went quiet.

Divayth looked around at them, apparently expecting some reaction. When he didn't get one, he continued talking. "I was never supposed to be in Skyrim for this long. My home is in Veloth. I only stayed here because I wanted to help Yngva. Now she's dead. This journey of mine is over."

It didn't make much sense at this point, but Emund's heart still sank. He supposed he'd been hoping to get to know Divayth better in the future. But maybe that hadn't even been possible in the first place.

Drisa replied first. "I understand. I won't keep you any longer than you wish to stay."

"You'll always be welcome, though," Hakind added, his voice still unsteady. "If you ever want to come around again. Someday, I'm going to be Jarl, and … I'm going to make Snowhawk a good place for elves. I'll do it."

Divayth snorted. "What elves? You Nords already got rid of them all. I'm probably the only one in the whole city right now." But then he turned away, grimacing, and ran a hand over his face. "… I'm sorry. Let's just get this over with. Gray One, do whatever you're going to do."

Then that was it. Emund stood slowly from his seat, looking around at the others by the hearth. "You've all been very good to me," he said. "I appreciate it."

Then something touched him. Something inside, something he hadn't been watching.

"I will not rest until Yngva's mission has been completed," he said, his voice hardening. "I vow this. I'll do whatever it takes to see this through."

He frowned. That hadn't been what he'd planned to say. But it had felt natural. Sure, Yngva hadn't wanted him to go on a quest for revenge, but… didn't they have to stop the Dwemer of Mzulft? It was different. He knew that.

"Farewell, Gray One," Divayth said, composing himself enough to stand up as well. He offered Emund an outstretched hand. "Deliver them to Oblivion for me."

They shook hands.

Emund had very few other preparations to make. At Drisa's direction, he headed upstairs and retrieved the sword bequeathed to him—it had been stashed, for some reason, underneath the Thane's bed. He retrieved and checked his pack, threw his winter cloak over his shoulders, picked up his staff, and walked back out of the house.

And just like that, he was outside Whitehorn Hall, possibly never to step in again. The city of Snowhawk surrounded him.

He adjusted his mask on his face, and began walking for the eastern gate, the same way he had come in. There was a long, long travel ahead, but he was determined to cross it swiftly. The mystery agent had already had a head start. There was no choice but to be quick. The Place would see to that.

As he approached the gatehouse at the end of the road, something happened. A low, male voice spoke directly behind him.

"Gray One."

Emund turned around, staff held low in both hands. A cloaked figure was standing in the middle of the street. All in black, with a hood obscuring his face, cloaking it in shadow. What little of his skin was visible was colored golden. Like a Dwemer.

He asked, "Who are you, stranger?"

"I'm a friend," the golden elf said simply. "You won't make it to Mzulft in time on foot. Go to the stables, and ask for the stallion named Dragonfleet. The stable hands will know what to do."

Emund blinked. He wasn't sure what he'd just heard. He had to think about it for a second.

This wasn't one of the Blades of Men. To his knowledge, they didn't recruit elves. And if it was a Dwemer, he didn't know where from. Kelthenez was long gone by now, and he'd never mentioned any other friends in Snowhawk.

But apparently, Divayth had been wrong. He wasn't the only elf in the city.

"Wait." He held up a hand. "Do you know what's going to happen in Mzulft? What is this?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't say more. Ask for Dragonfleet. Do well, and you may hear from me again." The figure began walking past Emund. "Good luck."

When Emund turned to look at the elf again, he found himself looking at an open street.

He turned in a full circle, scanning his surroundings. Nothing. The elf had just vanished into thin air.

Ah, well, he thought. He shrugged and headed on to the stable. It had gone without saying that powerful forces had been watching him since the start. Now they were beginning to show themselves.

All he had to do was finish his mission.


	36. The Crossroads

Morndas, 8:48 AM, 22nd of Evening Star, 1E 173

Mzulft

The time had come. The final conflict would be decided today.

Emund had ridden across nearly all of Skyrim to come here. The silver-maned horse he had been gifted, Dragonfleet, had made a world of difference. Not only was the stallion faster than Emund could have ever moved on foot, he seemed not to need food, water or rest. No doubt, this was someone's way of doing him a great favor, but the question of who remained unsolved.

Still, as the days went by, he rode all the way to the far end of Eastmarch, through the forests and hills of the central hold. He followed his map carefully, along rivers and over hills, until he came upon the Velothi Mountains. Mzulft lay directly to his east, not far up the slope of grass and rock. Or at least, its lower entrance did. Even from the foot of the mountainside, he could see the stone arches dotting the path up to the front gates.

The time had come.

It was all down to him. He had received many gifts from many sources, some more desired than others: the mask from Nocturnal, the robe from the Blades of Men, the staff from Jarl Idrun, the horse from his unknown benefactor. He had received many gifts, but there would be no more. The time had come, and this would end today.

He left Dragonfleet untethered at the foot of the mountain. Either he would leave or he would stay. It made no difference now.

Even now, knowing that he faced the end of his mission, Emund was calm. The Place guided him. The deep, dark being inside, the one that knew the answers already. It filled him with its strength.

There were doubtless many sentries along the path to the city gates. Rather than fight his way through—he didn't care to try a one-man assault on the entire freehold—he avoided the path entirely. Instead, after dismounting, he walked along the base of the mountain, northward for about a quarter mile. Then he began climbing up a particularly steep stretch of rock, scaling what should have been a natural boundary. A natural defense for Mzulft.

It meant nothing to him. He scaled up twenty, thirty feet, then reached a shallower slope and began walking. Slowly, stealthily, letting the Gray Cowl hide him. In this way, he walked parallel to the path to the main entrance.

The entrance was hewn into the slope of the mountain, such that it formed an artificial cliffside. Emund went past it. On the way, he observed the Dwemer-made gates of the city. The thick columns of stone, the golden metal plating, the pipes and pistons whose purpose he could only guess at. He'd never seen a Dwemer city up close before. It was an awe-striking sight.

Or it would have been, if it didn't belong to the enemy. The city didn't really awe him, and it didn't intimidate him. He felt nothing about it at all.

Emund's understanding was that the oculory was at the top level of the city, and that it needed to be exposed to the sky in order to function. That meant that he could find the oculory simply by scaling the mountain and looking for Dwemer structures in the vicinity. No one knew he was here, let alone what he intended to do, so there was plenty of time in which to act.

And so he climbed, and climbed, and climbed. His leather gloves gripped the stone and grass—and eventually, snow and ice—with reliable surety, and the dragon priest robes warded off the cold easily. Moreover, his carry weight enchant made his own body easier to lift up, by virtue of making his gear seem lighter. It was an easy, if time-consuming trek upward. And every few minutes, he looked around himself, checking to see if the oculory was anywhere nearby.

He found it after what must have been a couple of hours' climb. It was right above him by a couple hundred feet. A tall, stout cylindrical structure of stone jutting out from the mountain, like a bastion, with a couple of smaller pointy-roofed towers to either side in front of it. The central structure had a little miniature tower stuck on its front, with a very visible open archway in its front. It was connected to the other two towers by a pair of stone bridges, right up there on the mountainside, exposed to the elements.

Four golden figures were standing on the bridges. At this distance, he couldn't tell if they were automatons or just living Dwemer in heavy armor. It didn't matter. With this cowl on, they weren't likely to see him—and if they did, what were they going to do? Shoot him?

Emund climbed onward. He zig-zagged here and there, finding rocky footholds amid the steep ice. His path took him sideways overall, letting him edge closer to the structures while remaining out of the sentries' line of sight. Before long, the left-side smaller tower was looming up right in front of him.

And the bastion wasn't far behind. It was practically a stone's throw away from him. That building had to contain the oculory. It simply had to. Or else there was an unrelated Dwemer outbuilding sitting on the mountainside above Mzulft—and in that case, he didn't mind entering it anyway, just to see what was inside.

He circled around the uphill side of the small tower, surveying the bridges from much closer up. Those four figures were definitely automatons. They were standing completely motionless on the stone platforms, facing out over the sprawling view of Eastmarch below them. They had two legs and two arms in the manner of a person, but their bodies were skeletal and angular, made of gears and pistons and armor plating. Instead of hands, their arms ended with built-in weapons—a sword blade and a crossbow, for right and left. And their heads were unnaturally thin and tall, more masks than helmets.

It would be interesting to see how close Emund could get before they realized he was there.

As he crept around the tower, he unslung the elderwood staff from his back. It wasn't even nicked after the confrontation at the Tower of Mzark. He was fully confident that it would work on these metal targets.

The automatons were facing away from him, away from the central tower. He could've tried sneaking past them entirely, finding some way to get inside without alerting them. But that didn't suit him. They'd be too much of a risk later.

He put himself directly behind the nearest of the automatons. They still hadn't noticed him.

Then he launched himself into a full-speed sprint down the mountain slope, and leapt up onto the stone bridge.

His shoulder slammed into cold, hard metal. The automaton staggered forward one step, then tipped over and fell right off the bridge, bouncing and crashing down the mountainside.

By that point, Emund had moved on to the second one. They still had barely reacted to him—not even three seconds had passed since he began sprinting. He brought his staff down diagonally on the automaton's knee joint, cracking the metal, crippling it, forcing it to kneel. Then he parried its blade and shoved it off the bridge too.

The other two automatons were far away—at least twenty feet. They had crossbows, and Emund lacked a shield. He jumped back off the bridge onto the upper slope, then ran beneath it, keeping his head down. The bridge's underside was just above his path took him straight past the central tower without bringing him inside.

A crossbow bolt bounced off the ice over him. That was a miss.

He turned and grabbed the edge of the bridge in one hand, vaulting up just enough to put his foot on as well. He'd managed to put himself directly between both automatons. They closed in on him as he climbed up to his feet.

This would've been easier if they'd both been on one side of him. Emund let the Place handle it.

When the automatons reached melee ranged, he was ready. He lunged out and smashed the left-side one's sword arm with his staff, then turned and whipped his staff into the right-side one's knee, like the one he'd hit before. He immediately turned back and repeated the process, striking one then the other, again and again, tremors from the rigid metal impacts shooting through his hands every time. They never managed to get even a single strike on him. When they were sufficiently damaged, he pushed each of them off the bridge, one at a time.

Emund was alone up here. He looked around.

The purpose of the two smaller side towers eluded him, because there were no doors or even windows on them—not even where the bridges connected to them. It didn't matter. The central doorway awaited.

He stepped into the alcove of the smaller tower. There was a large Dwemer metal double door in front of him, it surface decorated with strange angled ridges. It appeared to have handles recessed in a central lock.

Sure enough, when he went to open them, the door itself was locked. The entire city of Mzulft was on the other side. The enemy city. Of course they wouldn't leave this free for him to open.

It didn't matter. The Place was good for more than fighting. What use would such a sneaky mask as the Gray Cowl be if its wearer couldn't even pick a lock?

His tools were thin steel wires and strips. He didn't even know how they all worked, or how they would interact with a Dwemer lock. He simply let his mind go blank, and let the Place take care of everything. His hands moved and turned, sliding metal pieces around inside the door. Seconds passed. Then more seconds passed. The Place gave him a twitch of annoyance.

Then the lock clicked, and the doors began to swing open. He quickly pocketed the lockpicks inside his robes again. There might have been more locked doors up ahead. He needed to focus.

Beyond the doors was a stone corridor, lit brightly by white lights on the walls. A draft of warm air washed over Emund's face. The corridor led a short distance to an intersection branching left and right. According to the arrangement outside, he would need to go left.

There was also a Dwemer standing in the intersection. A young adult male, with an elaborately ornamented beard, and black robes adorned with a large golden belt buckle. He stood there for a moment, staring at Emund, then screamed, "INTRUDER!"

So much for surprise, then. Emund burst into a sprint down the corridor. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the Dwemer also began sprinting away—off to the left, towards the oculory.

Emund was faster. He caught up within a few seconds. To the right of the intersection was a long, straight passage with a staircase heading downward. To the left was a much shorter passage ending in another pair of metal doors. The Dwemer was heading straight for the metal doors, pulling them open, starting to head inside.

The Place wanted to intervene. But Emund reminded himself that this wasn't his real enemy. As far as he knew, this Dwemer had nothing at all to do with the crimes that had taken place across Skyrim. So he couldn't solve this by killing the mer. And he wouldn't.

He hefted his staff like a spear, and threw it at the Dwemer's back. It struck him in the back of the head, causing him to collapse and land limply on his front in the doorway. A knockout, but not a kill.

The moment it was done, Emund raced forward and picked up his staff again. Then he looked through the doorway—and paused.

What he was looking at was unlike anything he'd ever seen. The corridor continued ahead until it expanded into a larger room. But the larger room was totally occupied by a massive, golden wall. It was a convex surface, from floor to ceiling, and dotted with greenish lenses ranging in size from 'dinner platter' to 'wagon wheel.' He'd never seen anything like it before.

And as he watched, the wall began to move. Somewhere, there was a hiss of steam-powered machinery coming to life, and the entire thing rolled upwards, making the lenses retreat out of sight, replaced with new ones from below. This wasn't a wall. It was the front of a sphere.

The oculory. The lens-viewing machine. The thing that had let them find the Elder Scrolls. It was already operational. Somewhere in this room ahead, the Dwemer were already working on it.

Emund began to step in over the young Dwemer's unconscious body, picking up his staff on the way. This wouldn't take long.

The Place was the only reason he survived. One moment, he was walking, and the next, his body was whirling back, bringing the staff up into a guard position. It happened too quickly for him to even understand. But as he turned around, he saw a dark shape descending on him, faster than anything he'd ever seen before.

His staff came into the direct path of the incoming blade. He knocked it aside with the middle of his haft, swiping the far end through the air, but his target had already jumped back.

The mystery agent was standing right in front of him. Tall and thin and covered head-to-toe in that strange seamless armor. He was bringing his sword back into a charged stance, preparing for another strike.

Yngva's killer was in front of him.

Emund sank into a ready stance of his own. All feelings, all distractions fell away. Even the swell of rage burning in his heart was a distant thought.

The agent was upon him like a bolt of lightning, striking again and again. And each time, Emund parried the golden blade with the end of his staff. As their exchange went on, he gladly retreated through the oculory doors into the short corridor beyond, stepping back over the unconscious Dwemer on the way. He had to go this way already. It was two tasks in one.

There was a deep, rumbling hiss of steam-powered machinery. Glancing behind him for a split second, out the corner of his eye, Emund saw the curved golden wall begin to roll upwards. The lenses were rotating out of view, being replaced by new ones at different orientations.

He felt a terrible sinking feeling in his chest. The Dwemer were already activating their machine. They were going to finish their mission before he could stop them.

The agent took advantage of his distraction, bringing his sword straight down on Emund's head—but that was predictable. He parried and returned a swing in the same motion, aiming for the agent's legs. Yet he hit nothing but air. As his staff swung out, the agent leapt sideways into the wall, kicking off the stone surface and landing behind Emund's back. An elbow slammed painfully into his spine, knocking him off balance, sending the corridor tilting uneasily around him.

Now came the agent's attempt at a killing blow. An armored left arm wrapped around Emund's trunk, squeezing painfully tight. And at the same time, that golden sword came rising up towards his throat, aiming to slice it open.

He brought the butt end of his staff up just in time to block the blade, stopping it flatly in its tracks. Then with a wrenching twist, he ducked out under the agent's sword arm, shoving him forward with one hand, then following it with a stomping kick to the back.

While the agent recovered from the impact, Emund turned and ran into the oculory room. Sure enough, the golden wall belonged to a giant metal sphere that took up nearly all of the space in front of him. There was only enough room around the perimeter for a narrow, spiraling stone ramp around the left wall. It led to an upper platform around the top of the sphere, made of a whole ring of crystalline panes in a metal wagon-wheel frame. Something on the other side of them was glowing brightly.

And the sphere was continuing to move. It was shifting from position to position, bringing new lenses into alignment with whatever was up above.

Emund sprinted up the ramp as quickly as his legs could respond to him. No audible footsteps followed him, but he didn't dare to look back. That would be a fatal mistake.

He made his way seemingly all around the chamber's circumference before reaching the top. Then, suddenly, he was in front of a machine like he'd never seen before. The giant sphere protruded slightly up through a big hole in the center of the floor, bridged by a tall metal arch laden with lenses and joints. Four giant plates of green crystal—almost like clamshells, they were so thick—were arrayed around the arch like the petals of a flower. The entire assembly was interconnected with bright white beams of light, extending up to even more lenses around the domed ceiling. It was ringing with audibly powerful Aetherial energy, filling the room with an eerie, reverberating hum.

And at the far wall from him stood a single high platform, standing at the top of curved ramps on the left and right. Three figures in black robes were standing on the platform, their lower halves hidden by a long, solid golden tabletop. A single beam of light shone from the center of the lens array onto a corresponding lens on the front wall of the table.

The entire upper platform was encompassed by a swirling sphere of glowing cyan streaks. Emund didn't have to know much about Dwemer magic to know he couldn't get through that.

But he was here. This was the machine he'd come here to destroy. Now all he had to do was find a way to shut it down.

And to survive long enough to do it.

The mystery agent came lunging up at him with the sword outstretched. Emund deflected it with his staff, only to take the agent's body full force in his chest. He fell back on the glass platform, with the agent's faceless mask right in front of his own, their limbs locked together. Before the grapple could continue, Emund drew in both legs and kicked the agent off of him—more of a shove than a real strike, but it put them far apart.

Something felt wrong, as he was standing back up. Something about his enemy. He'd seen it just now, in that brief moment when their faces had been so close together. Not with his eyes, but with his mind.

The agent was readying himself for another attack. Bringing his Dwemer-made sword up into a fighting stance.

It hit Emund out of nowhere. It tore at him deeper than any sword could cut. The realization. The one he should have already known.

He'd tried to warn himself about Yngva's death. The blood, dripping down again and again in his dreams. He'd even tried to let himself know Yngva would one day be his ally—the son and daughter reaching out to him had been one and the same person. Through the reading of the Elder Scroll, he'd seen pieces of his path through Time, and tried his best to recognize what mattered the most.

But the thing that had mattered the most had also eluded him the longest. He'd never understood the meaning of those visions he'd had. Never known why they kept following him, why they were intertwined with so much pain and loss. Only now, in this very moment, did the two pieces come together in his mind.

This mystery agent wasn't a Dwemer at all. She wasn't even male.

She was a Falmer. And her name was Ceyrel.

 _The girl stood still in her field, by her tree. She didn't understand what she was seeing._

 _One of the grown-ups was running. One of the men, the strangers her parents had told her about. He was running towards her, up the hill. He had black and red all over his body. His clothes were covered in it._

 _It was scary. The girl wanted to run away. She needed to find her dog and find her parents and leave. Whatever this was, she didn't like it._

 _She heard herself ask, "What's happening?"_

 _The man shouted three words to her. At the top of his lungs, he shouted._

" _IT'S THE NORDS!"_

Emund raised his staff once again. And for the first time since leaving Snowhawk, he spoke. "I know who you are, Ceyrel. I know your name."

The agent hesitated briefly in place. It was all the confirmation Emund needed. Yes, this was the girl he'd seen in his dreams. This was the Falmer girl from that quiet little valley village.

But then she charged in again, and the fight resumed.

Emund's staff whipped upward and clashed off Ceyrel's blade just as it began to pick up speed. Instantly, he went on the offensive. Before Ceyrel could recover, he slammed the butt of his staff into her sword hand, then cracked into her exposed side with the other end, right where the floating ribs would be. There was a flash of blue light across her black-and-gold skin, just like outside the Tower of Mzark—but she staggered back from the blow all the same, recoiling and turning that side away. To protect it from further injury.

It was like a dam broke in Emund's mind.

 _You think a staff is any less lethal than your weapon of choice, girl? It was_ made _to kill people like you. Your fancy armor means nothing against a solid blow to the head._

He pressed forward, striking again and again, forcing the Falmer to step back and defend, forcing her to parry blow after blow, deflecting every single counter. His staff was like a blinding storm in his hands. Ceyrel was defending herself so far—but only barely.

And all the while, the oculory machine continued to ring out with its bone-chilling otherworldly sound. From this close by, it was reverberating in Emund's ears, sending aches through his head. The sphere beneath it had stopped moving. Now it was gathering power.

They were wasting time. Emund had to stop this. He had to finish his fight.

But how was he winning? What was happening? In the back of his mind, even as he rained a ceaseless tempest of furious strikes on his opponent, he questioned what he was doing. This had never happened before.

Then the tempo broke. Ceyrel jumped in and grabbed Emund's staff in one hand, stopping it before it could begin its next swing. She plunged her sword down at Emund's neck—there was no time to react. He ducked his head down just enough for the blade to slide down his back instead. It cut cleanly through his robes, but stopped against the steel mail shirt beneath.

An elbow cracked into Emund's jaw. He went staggering back, only barely holding onto his staff. Ceyrel was still holding it too. Even before he'd regained his bearings, before he knew what was going on, he twisted the staff out of Ceyrel's grip, parrying her sword once more. Then as he stepped past the Falmer, he swung his staff down, hard, into the side of her knee.

Another blue flash rippled out over the smooth black armor. Ceyrel staggered away from the blow. To an unarmored opponent, that strike would have easily broken bones. But she was still standing, still moving. Still dangerous.

Emund began to turn back around, righting his staff for another attack.

It was too late. Ceyrel had already recovered. She spun and slashed outward with her blade, scraping again over Emund's back—and biting into his unprotected right arm, below the elbow, where the mail didn't cover. The pain was instant. The warm feeling of blood followed right after.

He gasped in shock. The blood was spreading quickly. But his arm was still working, his fingers all still answered. Emund brought his staff straight down on Ceyrel's sword hand while it was extended, then leapt forward and kicked her in the same knee he'd hit before. Two blue flashes, one after another. But it still made her stagger back.

He used the opportunity to retreat himself, and hold onto his arm with his free hand while the bleeding slowed and stopped. It took only a few seconds.

The oculory machine was still running. Whatever insidious process it was carrying out, it wasn't going to stop unless he made it. But Ceyrel would never let him shut the machine down. For whatever reason, she simply refused to give up. Her loyalty to her Dwemer masters seemed to have no limits.

Emund knew what he'd have to do. How he'd have to end this.

 _She murdered Yngva. She murdered so many others. She's no longer that little girl now—she's a monster._

He retreated to put the oculory machine mostly between them. Ceyrel was holding onto her knee with one hand, keeping it steady. Perhaps it really had been injured. It was something to feel good about, not bad. It meant he was closer to victory, and to saving Skyrim from the Dwemer in this room.

But it still gave Emund an unpleasant twinge to see.

He wondered if he could smash up the machine enough to disable it before Ceyrel got to him. Probably not. He'd be lucky to get even one hit in.

 _She's gathering her strength. Your bleeding has stopped. End this now, or she will end you._

The dam had broken. Emund could hear the Place inside his waking mind. That cold, unyielding voice in his head. It was all that stood between him and certain death at Ceyrel's hands. She was stronger than him, faster than him, better at killing than him.

But he'd warned himself about this, hadn't he? He'd seen it all in his dreams.

He didn't want to talk. He wanted to beat Ceyrel senseless and then crack her skull open. But that wasn't what happened. Instead, he began talking.

"You don't know who I am, Ceyrel. But I know you." Emund's voice was breathless, ragged from exertion. He continued anyway. "I've seen you before. I've read one of the very Elder Scrolls you stole. And it told me your story. Where you're from, who you were."

Across the machine, Ceyrel began advancing towards him. He responded by sidestepping back, keeping the distance carefully between them.

 _What is this? What plan are you executing?_

"You were a nice one. You had parents you cared about. You even had a dog. It was a good life. Until the Nords finally found your village, and you could've died that day. But the Dwemer saved you, didn't they? Somehow, so conveniently, they stepped in to save you right as the Nords attacked. Of course you'd feel like you owed them. Of course you'd do anything they say."

Ceyrel broke into a full-speed charge. She bounded past the metal arch, leapt over the nearest crystal shell, and came at Emund with her sword held aloft.

He was ready. He jumped in at the last second and parried the blade with his center haft, bringing the butt up and striking Ceyrel in the chin. She reeled back, and Emund pressed the advantage, striking again and again, at her sides, at her legs. Many of the blows bounced off her sword. Some hit nothing but air as she nimbly evaded him. But a few struck true, and despite every flash of blue, they were dealing real damage beneath the skin. He knew it.

Then Ceyrel finally raised her free hand. Emund had just enough time to watch it clench into a fist. Then it came slamming into the side of his face.

It hit him in the cheekbone. His skin split. Everything went blurry and fuzzy. His guard faltered.

Searing pain tore through his side. Warm blood leaked through his robes once more. He looked down, and through his wavering hurting vision, saw Ceyrel's blade tugging out of his flesh. She'd stabbed the point straight through his mail shirt.

Emund didn't think. He lunged with an outstretched hand and grabbed onto the hilt of Ceyrel's sword. Then he trapped the blade against his staff, locked under his own free wrist, and wrenched down hard. The handle tore right out of Ceyrel's grasp.

Another fist came at his face, but he saw it coming. He leaned his head back, but the knuckles still scraped over his mouth. It stung horribly. More blood began to leak out. It was welling up underneath his tongue.

He growled and lunged forward again. This time, he brought his staff down atop Ceyrel's head. She blocked it with crossed forearms—and Emund used the opening to kick her square in the gut. Ceyrel staggered back again.

Then he planted his foot on the sword on the floor, and kicked it away behind himself.

Ceyrel was standing there before him, unarmed. But her fists were raised in a new fighting stance. She was still lethal, still ready to kill.

The rage was back in Emund's veins. White-hot murderous rage. This was a killer. He had to stop her. He _wanted_ to.

"You murdered people," he spat through the blood in his mouth. "People I cared about. Better people than me. You killed them."

 _Yes._

What was going on in his mind? He couldn't keep track of himself. He couldn't follow his thoughts.

It was the Place's doing. It was confusing him. Filling him with thoughts and feelings to replace his own. Emund knew that this was his greatest hour. Whatever choices he made in this room would dictate the rest of his entire life. But the Place was in charge. It wanted him to fight, to kill, to take what was his.

And he didn't disagree.

He entered with a high, vertical swing, like he was aiming at Ceyrel's head again. But as Ceyrel raised her arms, he twisted at the last second, slamming his staff into her left ribs. His next strike was to her left knee—in both cases, the side he hadn't hit before. Then he stepped forwards, past Ceyrel's side, and jammed the wooden haft up against her throat. He twisted his trunk, pushed the Falmer back over his leg, and watched her collapse to the floor.

Ceyrel was still fighting. She lashed out with her legs, trying to trap Emund's and bring him down too. He jumped back out of reach, then brought his staff smashing down on her armored feet. They fell out of the way, and then he moved up to target her knees, then her hips—stepping to the side, attacking from a better angle. Ceyrel's defense began to falter.

There was no grace to it. Not anymore. Emund swung down again and again, beating Ceyrel's body through her armor, blue light flashing every time his staff impacted. She twisted and writhed beneath him, trying to defend herself, to put her arms and legs in the way. Emund aimed where they weren't. He struck the armored form in the belly, in the chest, in the head. He realized he was screaming. With effort, with rage, with triumph.

It reminded him of chopping wood. The constant exertion, the destructive rhythm. He wanted to chop skulls then too. Now he was crushing it all.

Ceyrel began to go limp. Her struggles were weakening. She couldn't defend herself. Emund was going to win. He was going to have his vengeance. All he had to do was keep hitting her until she couldn't get back up.

Emund raised his staff for one more blow to her head. A knockout. If the first strike didn't do it, he'd follow it up with as many as it took.

The oculory machine was still running. It was next to him. Still making its eerie noise, still shining its beams of light. He looked aside at it briefly. The Dwemer were standing on the balcony just where they'd been. Whatever they were doing, it was still taking place.

He could deal with them as soon as he'd dealt with Ceyrel.

Then Emund looked back down at her. She'd curled into a ball on her side, arms over her head. She was trembling. Not fighting back. Waiting for him to end her.

 _Don't forget about Yngva._

He spared himself a fleeting, quiet moment to think about that. His staff was still in his hands, raised to attack.

What would Yngva have wanted him to do right now? She would have wanted something. Vengeance, justice, everything else. All of that was a muddled memory now.

It was the wrong question.

What did Emund want to do right now? Not what the Place wanted. What did the real him want to do?

He thought about it for a moment. Looked down at the helpless girl on the floor in front of him.

No. He couldn't do this.

Emund lowered his staff slowly, letting it rest in front of him. His body ached and stung and burned from a dozen wounds. He was dizzy from all the lost blood. But he took a deep breath in, let a deep breath out, and focused his thoughts.

Then he began talking.

"You don't know me, Ceyrel. You don't know who I am, what I am, where I'm from. But I'm like you."

Ceyrel barely responded. She was still on the ground, still trembling. But she lowered one of her arms, turning her faceless glassy visor up to look at him.

"I never chose any of this. I had a simple little life once, but that's gone. I've been obeying the will of one person after another. And I've never really had the chance to choose anything for myself. I haven't even known who I am anymore."

Inside him, the Place was about to revolt. He ignored its voice. He ignored every voice except his own.

Either this would work, or it wouldn't. Either he would survive, or he would be killed here and now. The thought no longer frightened him. Either way, there was only one choice he could live with.

"I want to be a good person. And I'm not going to follow what's being laid out for me. I know you're a good person too, somewhere in there. The Dwemer tortured you. They made you into a living weapon. But you can be more than that. Please, Ceyrel."

Emund let his staff fall to the floor beside him. It clattered on the glassy panes, then went still.

"Let me help you."

Then he reached down and extended a gloved hand towards the Falmer girl. Slowly, shakily, she reached up with her own, and grabbed on.

He'd made his choice. This was Ceyrel's.

He helped Ceyrel up onto her knees, but she refused to move farther. She was slumped halfway over, gripping her waist with one arm. It felt bad seeing her like this, but Emund had no room in his mind for extra guilt. The oculory machine was still running.

"Come on," he urged. "We need to do something about this machine. I'm guessing you won't have a lot of qualms stopping it."

Ceyrel didn't respond. She was just kneeling there on the floor.

Emund squeezed her hand. "Hey. Ceyrel. Look at me."

In response, she reached her free left hand up to her chin, and pulled upwards. Her helmet split open into many-layered segments, folding down and away like a hood.

Underneath was a young, girlish Falmer. Her skin was as pale as snow, her head completely shaven. Dark red blood was streaked down from her nose and mouth, and from a gash above her eyebrow. She stared up at Emund with round, icy blue eyes. They were welling up with tears.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

This was the first time Emund had ever seen a Falmer in his life. He doubted he ever would again. But he didn't know how anyone could want to hurt this person.

He shook his head. "It's alright. But we need to focus on this. On the machine. We have to shut it down before—"

Then something happened. Something was missing.

The ringing sound had stopped. The beams of light were still shining between all the crystal lenses, but there was no noise. And the sphere of energy up on the balcony was gone.

Emund turned to look up at it.

"Wait."


	37. Last Words

Morndas, 9:30 AM, 22nd of Evening Star, 1E 173

Mzulft

It all began like another day's work. Ever since the fateful incident in the debate hall, Chief Designer Hizeft had been given free reign to do as she pleased with the oculory. And so Dalzren's new work regimen consisted of scrambling to reassemble the Implier with a much, much larger lens machine.

To call the project 'troubled' was an understatement. Dalzren, with aid from Hizeft and Angmthanz, had found herself working completely from scratch. The oculory lens array was highly versatile, but all of her calculations for the five-sided Implier were rendered useless by the absent fifth Elder Scroll. To allow an unbroken connection of implications, all of the scrolls had to be arranged in an equilateral pattern. What was more, there were four new objects to establish connections to: the three modular lenses on the ceiling tracks, and the interface machine that Hizeft had designed.

It was a staggering amount of work. Dalzren had been working twelve-hour shifts in a frantic effort to complete the Implier, and it still wasn't enough. Due to the nature of the project, and due to the political climate in Mzulft, she and Hizeft had agreed not to bring in any additional help (beyond her junior designer Tazarin for errands), for fear of secrets leaking out and saboteurs leaking in. While the work was in progress, the doors at the base of the oculory entrance were locked, and the Specter was on watch.

That was another matter all to its own. Dalzren had now met the Specter. A mute Dwemer, by all appearances, wearing an armored suit unlike any she had seen before. According to Hizeft, the suit was made of a unique weave of ebony scales and purified Aetherium fibers, rendering it all but completely unbreakable—but more importantly, amplifying the wearer's strength and reflexes to an impossible degree. Dalzren couldn't claim to understand how it worked, but the Specter unsettled her. He didn't respond to commands from anyone but Hizeft. He simply stood on watch, ready to subdue (or perhaps slay) any Dwemer who ventured near the oculory without permission.

And in the event that all these factors weren't enough—the Soul Fray had returned. Dalzren now wore articulated braces beneath her robes on both legs, for the same purpose as those on her hands. Without them, she could barely stand, let alone walk.

The tentative date for completion of the project was the 25th of Evening Star, in three days. She hoped she would last that long.

This morning, Dalzren was running a test on the newly installed lenses. She and Angmthanz were standing in the middle of the oculory chamber, atop the segmented crystal floor around the top of the steam-powered oculory sphere. They were watching the lenses from opposite sides while Hizeft used a control rod on the balcony's newly-installed interface table.

Dalzren may have been responsible for much of the physical work in this project, but Hizeft was the only one who could activate the interface table. It was keyed to her soul print in particular, and no one else's. The only way to circumvent that measure would be to build a new copy of the table's core components, and only Hizeft knew how they worked.

Personally, Dalzren would have liked to be the one using the control rod. It would have been more interesting than staring at the lenses and waiting to see how they behaved. But it was understandable to limit the possible users of the new Implier. There were four Elder Scrolls in this very room—four! The opportunities for increased power were too dangerous to imagine.

But imagine they would.

"I'm increasing the beam intensity by another 20 percent capacity," Hizeft called down. They were at 40 percent already—the lenses were coping with the intense beams of light from above, but only just. For testing purposes, the interface table included controls for apertures on the lens array itself.

Dalzren held up her targeting thermometer, aiming it at each lens within sight. "Temperatures are still nominal," she called back up.

"Same," Angmthanz added, aiming the same device from the other side.

"Keep watching," Hizeft said. "I'm going to try activating the scrolls again."

Perhaps it wasn't the most experimentally rigid test. They hadn't established a single hypothesis, let alone independent and dependent variables. It was mainly a question of trying to find a way for the Implier to function as planned. After all, even once it was ready, the three of them would need time to learn to use the machine side by side.

Hizeft set down the control rod and laid both her hands flat on the table. The sphere rotated once beneath Dalzren's feet, and four beams of light appeared from the scroll shells. The elder Dwemer closed her eyes as she immersed herself in some unseen sensation.

The temperature of the lenses began to rise slightly. Well within safe limits for these materials, but Dalzren was watching carefully. If she'd been more rigorous right now, she would've been using a clock to monitor the temperature changes over time, and recording all of the results on paper. But it hardly mattered for posterity's sake. This machine was likely to be dismantled not long after its first use.

"So far, so good," Angmthanz said to Dalzren.

It was good on her end, as well. She opened her mouth to reply.

Her reply never came. She was interrupted by a sudden sound from below.

The sound was of Tazarin's voice, screaming one single word at the top of his lungs.

"INTRUDER!"

Dalzren's heart stopped.

The implications of that word all rushed through her mind at once. If Tazarin was alerting them of an intruder from the passage directly before the oculory chamber, then the Specter must have already failed to stop the person from coming through. But he'd said the word 'intruder,' as in the singular noun. What did that mean? One single Dwemer from the city below?

It didn't matter. They were in great danger. Her heart was racing now. She called up to Hizeft, "What do we do?"

The Chief Designer had let go of the table. She looked down at Dalzren, then at Angmthanz. "Get up here!" she shouted. "New plan! We'll do it today, here and now!"

Dalzren couldn't think anymore. Her mind was in such disarray. She hesitated in place. Whoever was down below would be upon them in seconds. "But it's not ready—"

But Hizeft simply repeated: "Now!"

She willed herself to obey. Her mechanical leg joints allowed her only to speedwalk up the ramp, nothing faster. By the time she'd joined Angmthanz and Hizeft on the balcony, they were both staring at her with frantic urgency.

The Chief Designer said, "Place your hands on the table. I'll put a protective field around us."

Angmthanz asked, "What about the Implier?"

"It'll be fine," Dalzren said, before Hizeft could reply. "It's more dangerous to itself than we could ever be to it."

Hizeft raised her hands, then hovered them an inch over the elaborately etched golden surface of the table. "On three. One two three—"

Dalzren, Hizeft and Angmthanz all connected at the same time. The same white rolling light washed over them all.

Her body melted away, receding in the shadows of the illusory past. There was only empty space. Formless, colorless, immutable, unknowable. The empty void upon which creation was built.

It was a familiar place.

A square traced itself through the space, angled at 45 degrees and bisected by two perpendicular lines that divided it into four right triangles. A simple geometrical statement that meant the entire world. All four of the outer corners were glowing radiantly against the darkness, bleeding shadow against the light. They were blinding and perfect.

Two hands formed the square into a circle, then twisted it three-dimensionally into a sphere, expanding it outwards until it went beyond their reach. Hizeft's protective field.

So that was dealt with. They'd have longer than a span of a few seconds to attempt their desperate work.

A voice—no, a thought—appeared to Dalzren. Like words on a page, or whispers in her ear, or thoughts in her mind. Fleeting and ephemeral, nameless but for its content. "This is Hizeft. Are you both here?"

Another followed it. "Angmthanz here. I'm in."

"Dalzren here," Dalzren thought, or said, or wrote, in the space in front of her. "I'm in. What now?"

In the distance, impacts echoed numbly against the emptiness. Distant, discordant sounds, like a war in another plane of being. Perhaps the Specter hadn't been vanquished after all.

"Now, we search for FalZhardum Din. Follow my thoughts where they lead."

The light and darkness were both swept away in an all-consuming gray mist. It was cool like raindrops on the touch, hissing down to the ground—to her skin—in a gentle wave.

There was an empty flat plane. Squiggly and crooked around the edges, but flat. Nothing lay upon it. Oceanic waters lapped at its edges. Stars rotated above, but they were foggy and dark. A chorus of low, humming voices rang out with a low harmonic chord, on and on, with no need for breath. It was strangely dissonant, but she had heard it before.

She had heard it before. The droning sound continued.

The shape of the flat plane seemed wrong. It was unformed. It shifted and rearranged constantly, pieces ebbing and rising against the watery waves, only barely remaining afloat. Ripples ran underneath it, causing ridges to travel across its surface before vanishing again.

Dalzren watched.

Suddenly, instantaneously, a shape appeared. In the background, a bell rang, sharp and metallic, accompanied by the mechanical thumping of a great clock in motion. The shape was a silver spike from the far left corner of the plane, punching up through from beneath. When it appeared, the flat mass ceased moving. It was done. It was doing. Something was made.

The clockwork noise faded out again, leaving only the sound of the waves washing, and of the deep wordless chorus. Its notes remained unchanged.

She examined the shape. Its point was sharp. But it was clean, precise, perfectly straight. It knew what it had been designed to be.

More shapes sprouted through the waves. The next was a smoldering bulge in the static shape, on the far-right corner, undulating grotesquely like a beating heart. It stretched the colorless surface beneath it, staining the color a rusty red, like old blood. The shape sounded so wet and terrible. Ominous, like meat beneath the surface. It did not belong.

Yet it was a part of creation, and creation was blind to what things mattered over others. The chorus continued unimpeded. Dalzren understood them. She understood what it meant not to wish for these things.

Or she did not. She suspected what this flatness was, but now she only watched.

A third shape rose into view. A smaller, sharper cone deposited on the center rear of the plane, rumbling and roaring with a distant cry. The sound reverberated in her mind. It was unlike any living voice she had ever heard. There was such strength within it.

She examined the new shape. Part of the cone had been chipped away at the top, leaving only half of the point still remaining. The exposed surface within was raw and glowing with sparks of severed power. It was frozen, motionless, forever.

The drone of the chorus continued. Stars rotated overhead. Dalzren was one with her fellow minds. They were the same.

In another plane, in another world from another point of view, the sounds of war grew louder. They were an unwanted distraction. She wanted nothing to do with them.

She realized that it was becoming harder to focus. Green prickling energy was clouding the edges of her vision. She wanted to open her mouth and expel it from her throat before it could choke her, but it was stifling, clinging to her, eating at her vision.

An imperfection. A flaw in the machine of the Implier. There was no choice but to tolerate it. They had come this far. To stop now would be a condemnation to death, or worse.

In the other world, the sounds of war paused. There was only a voice instead. A soft, nameless voice, speaking to another in that world.

"I know who you are, Ceyrel. I know your name."

Who was the speaker, and who was the listener? It mattered not. Dalzren's other thirds reminded herself that it mattered not. She needed to focus on what lay before her.

The static plane rotated slowly upward, the view shifting and the object shifting in kind. The inky black waves of nothing surrounding it rotated as well, flattening out more and more until Dalzren's vision collided with them.

There was a drowning, bubbling sound. For a fleeting moment, the voices faded away to sheer silence.

Then everything was in reverse. She was looking at the plane from underneath. The waves reflected light in bizarre patterns. The shadows were bright instead of dark. Something had happened to the voices. They were discordant because they were backwards because they were inside-out. Comprehension failed her. This view was impossible.

The green energy encroaching on her vision turned a garish bright pink, like petals of flowers shredded to a million specks. Like blood spraying through the air in a mist. There was no time to waste.

Outside, the fighting sounds gave way to more words. More spoken words. They weren't relevant. This was exactly where they needed to be. The Implier was giving them everything they needed, and it was working without any unexpected snags. Soon, the process would be finished, and nothing the intruder would do could reverse what they had done.

There was no time to waste. Yet Dalzren listened on.

She heard it all. There was no mistaking it. As the voice spoke, the truth came out in a long, ugly cascade. The Specter wasn't a Dwemer male, but a Falmer female. She was named Ceyrel. She had been taken in by the Dwemer of Mzulft as a child, and transformed somehow into Hizeft's personal assassin.

Dalzren remained connected to the Implier's world. But her thoughts drifted elsewhere. There was an avalanche of conclusions after this revelation, and they were all horrible. They were all frightening to her. They were raising even worse questions.

For example: If Ceyrel could respond to verbal commands from Hizeft, if she could listen to the intruder's voice, then she wasn't a blind white-souled Falmer. She was a sighted black-souled Falmer, untouched by the Dwemer's conversion process. Pressing such a Falmer into service wasn't the same. Dalzren accepted, as all Dwemer in Mzulft did, that the white-souled Falmer were little more than animals. They had been designed that way. But this wasn't husbandry. It was slavery.

Also for example: Hizeft had designed this Specter herself. It had been her personal project, not only completely unsupervised by her superiors, but also unknown. And Angmthanz had said that Hizeft had already been at work on her projects when he shared his knowledge of FalZhardum Din.

She snapped back to the image in front of her. It was moving again. Beneath the far center end of the inverted shape, a blue spike was pointing downward, made of crumbling pieces of stone. They were all frozen in place, as though by a magnet. On the underside of the plane, it stood entirely alone, pointing in a direction that no other entities did.

The Black Stone. FalZhardum Din. The connection to Aetherius responsible for the mysterious blue magical ore.

It lay there before them. Through the creeping pink energy, Dalzren saw it. They all saw it, lying there beneath the ice, vulnerable and exposed. They were one. So far, they had only observed, but now was the time to act. Now, in one stroke, after one single use of the Implier, the treasures of the Black Stone would be theirs.

Or such was the idea.

Dalzren's loyalty was guaranteed by one simple fact: If she did anything to contravene her superior's wishes, she would die, and her son would die as well. But more than that, she believed in Hizeft's goals. She believed that Mzulft was at a disadvantage against the other freeholds. One day, her city would collapse under the pressure of the outside world. That was her belief.

But she was a Dwemer. She was skeptical. Even now, in the place of the defiance of all reason, with energy eating away at her eyes and her mind, with the Black Stone ready for the taking, she hesitated.

The voice was still speaking. The fighting had stopped.

She listened.

"I never chose any of this. I had a simple little life once, but that's gone. I've been obeying the will of one person after another. And I've never really had the chance to choose anything for myself. I haven't even known who I am anymore."

Dalzren knew who she was. She was a Dwemer, a designer, a widow, a mother. But something was happening out there. The intruder was refusing to fight. Why?

Not because he intended to let the three Dwemer on the balcony continue their work. Dalzren doubted that anyone would be able to destroy the machine in time to stop them regardless, but the intruder made no such concession. He was refusing to fight because of something else.

Because it was wrong.

The thought came to her in an instant.

SDalzren couldn't allow this to proceed. She couldn't let the Black Stone be taken from its anchored place. Not because the Dwemer of Raldbthar deserved it—but because Hizeft did not.

The Chief Designer had orchestrated this entire operation, from start to finish, to gain power for herself. Not for Mzulft, but for her own personal gain. She had victimized an innocent Falmer girl and made her kill countless undeserving people. She had disgraced the Clan Chief and manipulated Mzulft's politics, destabilizing the freehold so she could gain power for herself. She was even inviting war with another freehold, making an enemy of Raldbthar in order to steal their riches—no doubt, that supposed proof of their conspiring with the Nords was a forgery. And she had enlisted Dalzren in her service. Dalzren, the designer who couldn't resist even if she wanted to.

She was looking through the crackling pink noise. It nearly blinded her now. A wisp of inky dark energy was beginning to curl around the inverted spire of the Black Stone. Hizeft was continuing her plan.

If Dalzren intervened, she and Amalest would both die. She would sacrifice not just herself, but her son as well. Who was she to decide his fate for him? She would be no better than Hizeft, sacrificing an innocent child for her own goals.

The spiral of energy was tightening. Closing around the blue spire, beginning to tug it away.

This was wrong.

She hoped Amalest would understand someday.

With a horrible, mind-freezing push, Dalzren forced herself free. She forced herself back out of the Implier's world, into reality.

The balcony was surrounded by a giant globe of swirling cyan energy—Hizeft's protective barrier. Down below, to the right of the lens array, two figures were in the room. A stranger in robes like those of the Atmoran Dragon Cult, standing over Ceyrel, who was on her knees. Dalzren could barely see them through the globe, but she could see that Ceyrel's helmet was off. Her head was pale and bare. A Falmer indeed.

That was all the information she could absorb. There was only a fleeting moment in which to act. Hizeft was still connected to the Implier interface. So was Angmthanz. They had to be stopped, now, or else FalZhardum Din would end up in the wrong place.

There was only one option. Only one way for Dalzren to live with herself now.

She grabbed Hizeft's control rod off the floor in both hands, raised it past her shoulder, and swung the heavy crystal-bearing end with all her strength at the Dwemer's face.

Flesh and bone broke beneath the blow. Hizeft staggered backwards, her hands sliding off the table. The cyan globe vanished. She slumped down onto her back, and remained there, her head transfixed at an unnatural angle to her shoulders.

It was done. There was no turning back.

Down below, the figure in the Atmoran robes looked up at them. "Wait," he said, in the language matching his outfit.

Angmthanz grunted loudly and recoiled from the table, shaking his hands out vigorously. "Ugh. What happened?"

Then he focused on Dalzren, standing there holding the bloodstained control rod. Then he looked at the Chief Designer's lifeless body on the floor. "Oh."

Dalzren couldn't bring herself to let go of the rod. She wanted to, but she couldn't. Not with Angmthanz standing right there before her. "Angmthanz," she said. "Did you know about this?"

"About the Specter? No. I can't believe you did this." He seemed to truly mean it. This was hardly a fitting response to seeing one of his co-workers murder the other in cold blood.

The figure in robes called out, still in the Nordic tongue, "What's going on up there?"

Dalzren took in a deep, shuddering breath. Tears were threatening to escape her eyes. She walked up to the balcony, and tossed the control rod off over the edge, leaving it to clatter on the floor below.

"I had a change of heart," she said. There was no denying what she'd just done. No one could ever use the Implier at its full power again. Perhaps she could buy herself more time by using the incomplete Implier as she had once done, but inevitably, she would die a premature death, and someday Amalest would follow. That was all that could happen now.

She looked sideways to Angmthanz. "Did you move FalZhardum Din?"

"No. The vision collapsed before anything could happen." The old Dwemer leaned his hands back on the table, but without any effect this time. "I can't believe it. We were so close to making it work. The Black Stone could have been ours."

"It wasn't meant to be," Dalzren said numbly. "Come. Let's go meet our new friends down below."

They met at the base of the left ramp, arranging naturally into a loose circle facing each other. Dalzren, Angmthanz, Ceyrel, and the intruder. Up close, Ceyrel was a shocking sight. She was a young girl, barely even pubescent—no older than fifteen. Her head was bare, shaven hairless but for the eyebrows, to make room for three parallel interface tabs running up her crown. With a sickening start, Dalzren realized that they weren't a garment, but an implant, surgically attached to the girl's brain through the top of her skull.

If Dalzren had regretted her actions a moment ago, that feeling left her now. There was no justification for transforming a child into something this wicked. Hizeft had made Ceyrel half-machine. But there was dark red blood streaked all down the Falmer's face, from her nose and mouth, from up above her eye. She was only half-machine. Used for as brutal work as an automaton, but still able to bleed like an elf.

As if on cue, Ceyrel raised a hand and cast a healing spell on herself.

The intruder turned to her and asked, "You couldn't have done that any sooner?"

"Your staff," she replied tersely. "It killed my magicka. My stamina, too."

The intruder glanced across the room. A pale wooden staff was on the floor, not far from a true alloy sword. "Huh. Well, it is made of elderwood. I didn't ask a lot of questions about it."

"Excuse me," Dalzren said. "Who are you, exactly?"

Upon closer examination, the intruder was even harder to identify than before. He was a male, of course, and he was speaking in the Nord language, but that was all. His head was mostly obscured by a hood, and his upper face by a gray mask marked with indecipherable blue runes. It didn't seem like something a resident of Mzulft would arrive in.

The intruder shook his head. "I can't answer that. All I can tell you is that I'm the wearer of an artifact from Nocturnal, the Gray Cowl, that prevents anyone from knowing who I am. My associates called me the Gray One."

"Nocturnal? You're referring to the Daedric Prince?" Angmthanz turned and stared at the intruder in some mix of awe and trepidation. "Why would a Daedric Prince see fit to destroy our work?"

"She didn't," the intruder said. "This was my idea. Ceyrel killed a lot of people whom I cared about. I came here to kill her and stop whatever you were hoarding Elder Scrolls for."

The old Dwemer stroked a hand down his long beard. "Well. No need for that last part. Dalzren here just snapped our leader's neck. This device is unusable without her."

The intruder glanced at Dalzren. "Thank you."

She couldn't bring herself to offer a response. This outcome was a death sentence for her and Amalest. But these two warriors didn't know, and Angmthanz was too busy being upset at the demise of his project to care. She'd simply have to cope with that reality later.

Ceyrel was wiping the drying blood off of her face with one hand. She glanced down at the floor, but said nothing.

Dalzren said, "I'm sorry, Ceyrel. I didn't know your identity. I might have killed Dalzren much sooner if I had."

The Falmer girl turned and looked at her blankly. "You are a Dwemer. Why do you care, after what you have done to my people?"

It was a fair question. Dalzren supposed it would have been too presumptuous on her part to merely say the reason was complicated. But it was. What had been done to the Falmer race was a grand, political move, an act of necessity that granted them far more individual mercy than the Nords ever would have offered. What had been done to Ceyrel was an act of focused, purposeful cruelty. It was an adequate distinction for allowing the Dwemer to live with themselves. But Dalzren didn't expect that an actual black-souled Falmer would care.

Instead, she asked, "If you hate us, why have you fought for us so loyally?"

Ceyrel didn't have the chance to answer.

Suddenly, without warning, all of the lights in the oculory all went dim. The beams of white light flickered and died. A ghostly tremor shook through the floor, through the air. Wisps of bluish fog rose from the floor, running in fluid lines, converging on a point just in front of the balcony.

As the four onlookers watched, the blue wisps coalesced into a single mass—a glowing orb, hovering in the air. For a moment, it expanded out into a massive, brightly glowing sphere, lashing outward with spiraling arms of energy. Then it collapsed back down upon itself, leaving behind a tall, narrow shape of pure white light.

The light faded away. A woman stood in its place. A pale, elegant woman in flowing black robes, whose lower half trailed out to inky wisps of nothingness.

Dalzren was in the same room as a Daedric Prince. She didn't know what to think.

"Hello," the woman said. "I am Nocturnal. This conversation is long overdue, and I apologize for that."

That didn't sound like a very Daedric thing to say.

The intruder asked, "What are you here to do?"

"Firstly, to apologize. You were a hapless victim in everything that has transpired. I was wrong to doubt you. But secondly, to explain. You deserve that much."

Angmthanz was staring speechlessly. No doubt, he'd waited his whole life for a moment like this. Perhaps he'd eventually think of something to say.

"Millennia ago, in the Dawn Era, I was a young being, unburdened with the weight of experience. The line between mortal and immortal was not as clearly drawn in those times, and I wandered Tamriel freely, experiencing life as it unfolded. But the inhabitants of Tamriel then, the Ehlnofey, were Aedric in origin, fundamentally unlike myself. They could never see me as I truly was. They only saw an illusion, as you do now. I was content with this, for darkness was my sphere as a Daedra. An existence in the shadows suited me.

"But one day, I met an Ehlnofey who changed everything. His name was Vek. Even without knowing me, he understood my thoughts better than any other creature, Aedra or Daedra. He was so eager to join my side in traveling Tamriel, and I… for the first time, I wanted to share my shadow with another. In his presence, I was complete. I have always been, and will always be, the embodiment of my Daedric sphere. Vek showed me not what I was, but what I could be. He opened my mind to the idea that one day, I could be more than my Daedric sphere. I could be more than what the Aurbis had made my essence. Yet he could never see me. And that knowledge filled me with a great, unremitting sorrow.

"So I fashioned him a gift. A shroud for his Aedric soul, one that would veil him in my own shadow. At the time, it was among the most powerful artifacts in all existence. It was intended not to hide him from others of his kind, but to allow him to see beyond his natural limits. He could see me, as I truly was, to the fullest depth of my existence. When Vek donned it, the artifact became a mask, and he wore it in the gray shadow. We were one together. Those times were the happiest I had ever known.

"But it was not made to last. Vek realized the power that I had granted to him, and he wished to use it to its fullest. He embarked on a campaign to gather might in Tamriel, using subterfuge at first, then using sources of power he had unveiled using my Cowl. When I confronted him for his misuse of my gift, he claimed I intended to make him subservient to me, and that I only wanted him to know enough to make me happy. He claimed that I had never wanted him as my equal. He mistook my Daedric sphere as a declaration of power.

"I realized then that I had erred in creating the artifact. But Vek never gave me the chance to undo what I had made. He cast the Cowl into the abyss of Time, binding his own soul to it in the process. He was forevermore out of my reach, and the Cowl—despite being of my own essence—could never return to my plane of Oblivion. It was cursed to find one undeserving owner after another, tainted by what Vek had done.

"To him, it was the culmination and ending of his life as an Ehlnofey. To me, as a fledgling Daedric Prince, it was a valuable lesson. Mortals crave power. They deserve only to be dealt with on a basis of transaction. The Cowl was the last gift I would ever give without a price to be paid for it. I have suffered to watch it fall into so many wicked hands. But I think today, I must make an exception for you."

Nocturnal's gaze settled on the intruder.

And the intruder spoke. "Vek is the Place, isn't he? That presence in the back of mind. He wanted me to kill Ceyrel. He almost convinced me that I wanted to. Except you showed me all of those visions of the little Falmer girl. You didn't have to do that."

"I didn't," Nocturnal said.

Nobody spoke. Dalzren didn't understand this conversation. Her mind was elsewhere.

Nocturnal continued. "The last wearer of the Cowl intended to use its veiling power to read an Elder Scroll, expecting to choose what he would discover as a result. You chose as well, although without knowing it. The Cowl is of my essence, and so I saw what you looked for. Time and time again, you showed yourself the many visions of Ceyrel as an innocent girl. I doubted it would be enough to convince you to stay your hand. But you did."

Angmthanz raised a hand tentatively. "Nocturnal? I have a question."

"Yes?" The woman looked at him, stoic, unyielding. No doubt, she hadn't appreciated the interruption.

"I don't know how to say this, but … are you truly Nocturnal herself? I've read about Daedric Princes and how they commune with mortals. You sound like a mortal being. The way you're speaking, the way you're acting."

"Well, I take that as quite the compliment. I had many centuries to practice this demeanor. It has seen little use since the Dawn Era. Most Daedric Princes never reached out to Mundus as I did, and I myself am no longer inclined to try. Except today."

The intruder was not dissuaded from responding as before. "Honestly, the seeing-special-stuff part of the Cowl sounds great, but I'm surprised the last wearer wasn't in it for the mysterious person inside the Cowl sharing his mastery at everything in life. I was hopeless at fights before this."

Ceyrel turned and looked at the intruder. "So, that's how you won?"

Nocturnal ignored her and replied only to the intruder's comment. "I believe Vek spoke to you more actively than to previous wearers. I see so much in you of what he used to be. And I expect he saw the same." She paused. "Now. The first that I came to do was to apologize. And the second was to explain myself. But I feel it's time for a third. A gift. The first I have given since I first made the Gray Cowl."

No one spoke.

"The Gray Cowl is of my essence, and so I have watched you work in the world. I expected you would succumb to the temptation of power eventually. That you would embark on your own agenda and allow the Place to take you there. But I was mistaken. The Gray Cowl should never have found its way into your possession. You don't deserve such a curse. My gift to you is to banish it from your person.

The intruder stepped forward eagerly, up by Dalzren's side. He smelled of blood. His own blood, likely. "Take it. Please take it."

"Remove the Cowl," Nocturnal said, "then let it fall."

With that, the intruder reached up with both hands, lowered the hood of his robes, and raised the gray mask up off of his face.

The man standing there was a Nord, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old, just shy of six feet tall. His build was hard to determine beneath the robes, but Dalzren thought he looked muscular. His skin was pale like any for his race, and his hair was a messy pure blonde, running down the sides of his head all the way down to the shoulders in an arching center-part style. His face was youthful, but hardened and lean, and adorned with a sparse but unkempt golden-blonde beard from days spent without grooming. He gazed around the room with piercing blue eyes, taking in all its contents. Despite his age, he looked like he had seen too much already.

He let the Gray Cowl fall to the floor. It vanished into nothingness before it could land.

"It's gone," he breathed. "The Place is gone. Am I free?"

Nocturnal nodded. "You are. You may tell them your name."

The intruder turned back around and faced his three mortal peers. "My name's Emund. It's nice to meet all of you."

"Hello, Emund," Ceyrel said mildly.

Dalzren nodded.

Before she could think of anything to say, however, Angmthanz spoke up. "Well, I'm Angmthanz and this is Dalzren. We work here in Mzulft. It's really a good thing no one raised the general alarm, or they'd be breaking down the door by now."

"Hi, guys," Emund said. "What did you want with all those Elder Scrolls, anyway? I'm assuming it had something to do with seizing huge amounts of power."

"That's really all it boiled down to," Dalzren muttered. Did she ever feel like a fool right then.

Emund and Ceyrel. The two unwilling warriors. They were both practically children. How had they ended up here in this manner?

Emund asked, "What's wrong?"

Dalzren swallowed. Her eyes were threatening to begin shedding tears again. "Nothing, I only … this whole device is unusable without the help of the person I just killed, and I'm slowly dying from the condition called Soul Fray and it'll kill my son too after I'm gone, and I'd been promised we could use the machine to fix me after our mission was complete. But that's no longer possible. I'm going to die in a matter of weeks, and then it's only a matter of time for my son."

"Oh, no," Nocturnal said, with some sort of sympathy in her voice. It might have been genuine. "That's terrible. Would you like me to fix that?"

"What's your price?"

"None today. I'm in a giving mood. Hold still." Nocturnal raised an arm straight at Dalzren, and sent forth a low, thrumming pulse of bluish energy, traveling towards her in a vertical wave.

It washed over Dalzren's body with a faint, almost warm touch. A pressure relieved itself from the back of her mind, one that she hadn't realized was even there. It felt uncanny. She saw the room differently now.

She didn't understand what this meant. If she had just been enlisted into a Daedra's service, things were about to become complicated.

Nocturnal said, "It's not in my power to replace what parts of your soul have been lost, but you won't lose any more. Go and live your life as you would. Just remember to stop playing with soul gems so much."

The revelation came to her like a landing on solid ground. All the tension left her heart in an instant. Her Soul Fray had stopped. Her life wasn't going to end after all. And neither was Amalest's. After everything she had done, after all the desperate effort to save herself and her son, the entire problem had been solved by a Daedric Prince's charitable whim.

"Thank you," Dalzren whispered, not grasping her own words.

She backed up against the wall of the ramp behind her, and sat down slowly on the floor against it.

Nocturnal continued talking like nothing had happened. "I could have appeared at any time before or after now, it is true. But I wished to see if you would prove yourself, Emund, and now there are many gifts to dispense. There is one more, in fact, but it's not truly mine to offer. It's for you, Ceyrel."

Once, Angmnthanz had told Dalzren that the forces of opinion were all that truly shaped the world around them. She had taken it as an annoyance, at most. A distant fact of reality that still had little to do with her daily work. But now, she had seen within the Elder Scrolls, seen what whimsical and arbitrary a construct she had assumed was the foundation of reality. The reason the Implier allowed its user to change reality was because it exposed reality as a fleeting falsehood.

And in case she had required further convincing, a Daedric Prince had just now stopped Dalzren's Soul Fray in its tracks with nothing more than an idle gesture and a few words.

The Falmer pointed to herself. "Me?"

"Yes," Nocturnal said. "I know what has kept you here. I have been asked to help set you free."

A moment passed.

Emund asked, "What has kept you here? Dalzren asked you the same."

Ceyrel turned to him. "You don't know?"

"No."

"Hizeft was the one who saved my village. She brought a team of her most elite fighters to intercept the Nord raiding party. And since we were no longer safe there, she brought us back to Mzulft. Except that by then, all of the other Falmer in the city had been long since transformed. She made us a proposition. Instead of transforming us, she would place us in a special form of stasis, freezing us in Time, until the day came that Skyrim was safe for our people once again."

"Until the Nords were driven out," Emund said. "Or killed."

Ceyrel nodded. "Yes. But she also used some of us for her own ends. It's something about the way Falmer bodies work, as opposed to Dwemer bodies. We were more receptive to what she wanted. I was the only one who survived the experimentation. She filled me with her inventions, trained me to read and speak and fight, clad me in this Aetherium skin, and told me to go out and kill for her. She told me that it was necessary if I wanted to see the Nords gone in my lifetime. And that if I didn't obey her, she would begin killing the other Falmer in their stasis cells."

Dalzren stared. She'd understood that Ceyrel's predicament was needlessly brutal, but now she was realizing she hadn't known Hizeft at all. The Chief Designer had been manipulating her, right up until that final moment.

Something had to be done now. She'd been complicit in too much. Not just the Chief Designer's actions, but every crime committed against the Falmer race. Because she realized now—these Falmer had chosen, in their desperation, to submit to this cruel process. Perhaps Ceyrel hadn't expected to be made into a living weapon, but the rest of them had decided to imprison themselves rather than submit to the normal approach. The normal approach, of course, was for them to be blinded and made to produce white-souled offspring.

The Dwemer called it a politically necessary move. But looking at this Falmer girl with her own eyes now, Dalzren didn't understand her own people's idea of necessity.

She pushed herself back to her feet. "I'm sorry, Ceyrel. I truly am. What Hizeft did was… unforgivable. And what my people did before that was a crime as well. But I'll do whatever I can to make this right. Where are the stasis cells now?"

"A secure location outside the city. She let me visit now and then to make sure they were all still alive. But if I try to break in, the cells will automatically begin killing their occupants. And even if we free them together, they will still be in a land dominated by the Nords. They will be as good as dead."

Nocturnal spoke again. "Hence my gift. When you go to the holding location together, an elf in robes like mine will meet you. He's an Altmer from Artaeum, by the name of Quaranir. He has asked to transport you and your villagers to his home island, to keep you safe until Skyrim is ready to receive you again. You will not be required to fight for him, or even follow him there. But he asked me to tell you all of this. He can be trusted."

That was new. Dalzren had scarcely even heard of Artaeum before, besides in her geography lessons. She asked, "Why do the elves there care about the Falmer here?"

"Because there are precious few left alive and uncorrupted, and they wish to keep the Falmer spirit alive."

Angmthanz chuckled. It was a low, almost mirthless chuckle.

Dalzren turned to look at him. "What's amusing you?"

The older Dwemer glanced at her, still smiling slightly. He said, "Oh, well, everyone's getting gifts today, aren't they? Emund's freed from his curse, you're freed from your Soul Fray, Ceyrel's freed from her servitude. I'm glad for you all. I am. But when this is all over with, and Nocturnal goes on her way, you and I are still citizens of Mzulft. We're at a disadvantage. A great one. Raldbthar is about to go to war with us for what we've done, and now our effort to turn the tables is spoiled. Many Dwemer will die for this."

A fair point, Dalzren thought. She needed to think about Amalest's future in the city now. He wouldn't have a good life if the Dwemer of Raldbthar conquered it.

"I'm sure you can handle that yourselves," Nocturnal replied lightly. "I would recommend returning their Elder Scrolls over to them, perhaps along with your Chief Designer's head and some financial reparations. People can become very dangerous when you take things that belonged to them."

Angmthanz said, "We'll have to explain this to the people of Mzulft, too. It won't look good. An agent of Nocturnal showing up, a secret Falmer soldier, all these other things? It's insane."

"Just say I was a saboteur whom you successfully repelled," Emund commented. "I don't care what the Gray One's reputation ends up becoming."

Dalzren added, "And I slew the Chief Designer when I realized that she was about to endanger our entire city, possibly with death, and that she could not be reasoned with. That's close enough to the truth. I'm sure the Clan Chief will agree with the latter portion."

"All right. All right." Angmthanz held up his hands. "We'll figure it out. But … as long as we're talking like this, I do have one question for you, Nocturnal. Feel free to ignore it if you like."

"Ask," Nocturnal said.

"Do you think there's any hope for the Dwemer people? All of our reason and logic. It's a lie, isn't it? We're just trying to impose our own force of opinion on the world. What do you think will happen to us?"

"I see three possibilities. First, you, as a race, continue your awkward pretense of a logical world, always struggling and at odds with the real way of things. Second, you move on from your fixation, and learn to accept the world as it truly is. Or third, someone of your race tries to rewrite the Aurbis even more fundamentally than your Chief Designer intended to. Only in the third case would I lose hope for your people."

Another moment went by.

"I see," Angmthanz said quietly. "Thank you."

Nocturnal righted herself, arms down at her sides. "I must depart now. I have done what I set out to do. This will be the last time that any of you see me. I wish you all the best of lives."

And with that, the Daedric Prince vanished from sight, and the lights in the room brightened to normal once again.

Dalzren looked between the three others. "What now?"

"You'd better follow Ceyrel to wherever her secret site is," Angmthanz said, pointing to the Falmer girl beside him. "I'll take care of things here, don't you worry."

Ceyrel wordlessly raised the pieces of her helmet back up, sealing them one by one over her head. The cranial plate clicked audibly onto the implants on her skull. Once again, she became the faceless entity that Dalzren had known.

Faceless, but not nameless.

Dalzren focused on Emund. "What about you? Where will you go?"

The Nord man raised the hood of his ancient robes. His face remained fully visible beneath. "My work here is complete as well. I'm going to leave, and like Nocturnal, I don't think I'll be seeing any of you again. In fact, with the exception of you two Dwemer, I suspect this is where we all part ways."

He looked sideways to Ceyrel. "Good luck out there. And tell Quaranir I said thanks for the horse. He'll understand."

"Goodbye, Emund," Dalzren said softly.


	38. An Open Door

Morndas, 4:14 PM, 12th of Morning Star, 1E 174

Tvalistead

It was snowing today.

For weeks now, Emund had walked west. He walked through the forest and along the rivers, on roads foreign and familiar. The trees of Eastmarch had given way to the plains of Whiterun Hold, and those plains had given way to the low hills at the foot of Eldersblood Peak. The journey might have been quicker if Dragonfleet were still with him, but after leaving Mzulft, the stallion was nowhere to be found. That was fair. There was no longer any rush.

Now, Emund walked along the road to the village he'd known his entire life. Tvalistead. It had been the only place he could think to visit first, now that he was free.

He was no longer the Gray One. His identity was his own. He'd never felt better about anything in his life.

The last time he had been in his home village, it had been early autumn. Sometime in Last Seed, as he recalled. Five months had passed. Now it was the dead of winter. And it wasn't an especially strange or portentous winter—it looked the same as it always had, every year as Emund had grown up. But he was looking upon it with new eyes.

The buildings of Tvalistead lay in the distance ahead, nearly on the horizon. Emund could faintly see the gray columns of smoke from their chimneys rising into the dim, cloudy sky. Everything was blanketed in a slowly, steadily growing layer of snow. And he was alone out here on this road. It was completely silent, but for the sound of his footfalls crunching along the path.

Fortunately, the cold meant nothing to him. He wore a dark hide cloak so as to attract less attention, but underneath was the dragon priest robe he'd received from the Blades of Men. The fabric was torn where Ceyrel's sword had sliced and stabbed through it, but its enchantment was very much intact.

Emund was dimly aware that he had no idea what to expect today. But he had to come here. If absolutely nothing else, he had to see everybody one last time. Or rather, he had to let them see him.

He'd been missing for five months. With Nocturnal's curse active, no one would have even remembered him enough to realize he was gone. Now he had no idea what to expect.

Eventually, the path took Emund to the outlying fields of the village. A few houses lay in the distance, far back behind the fences of their snow-covered farmland. He crossed over the familiar bridge to the main, northern side of the village—the river beneath was frozen over—and began to pass between the buildings there. The mill, the sawpit, the shopfront houses.

The Whitefeather Inn.

He laid eyes on it from a hundred yards down the road, and the sight sent a tingle down his spine. No one else was out here to witness this moment. No locals, no travelers, not even any animals. He was alone, looking at the place he'd lived and worked and called home for so long. Doubts began to creep into his mind. There was no telling what would be waiting for him inside the inn. It might have been something he'd rather not see.

There was nothing to do but continue onward. He would never forgive himself if he didn't come here now.

He walked up to the inn's front in silence. The wooden porch was bare, protected by the roof above from the snowfall. Through the front windows, he could see the warm orange glow of the hearth inside. Voices were speaking on the other side of the door, audibly but faintly. Many voices, at the same time. Guests having conversations with each other. He knew the sound well. Upon closer listening, it was accompanied by a faint, strumming melody of some musical instrument. He knew that too.

Emund placed his foot on the first step. The wood of the staircase creaked softly under his weight. He couldn't help but observe how much easier this would've been with the Place guiding him. How easy everything had been, when he could just take the option of surrendering himself.

That option was gone forever. And he didn't really miss it. But doing this now was far from easy.

He walked up each step of the porch, passing from the snow-covered outdoors to the bare shelter. Once he was no longer being snowed on, he stamped his boots on the porch, shaking off snow from his soles and insteps and ankles. He took off his cloak and flapped it with both hands, beating the cloth against the air until it too was clean. Then he donned it again, lowered both hoods of his outfit, and placed his gloved hand on the door.

Home at last.

Emund took a deep breath in, and pushed his way inside.

The inn room was packed. All different people were taking shelter here. People who couldn't move forward in their travels, who had to rest until the biting weather passed. He knew none of their faces.

But the mood was pleasant. The guests were chatting merrily with one another, drinking from their tankards, all the usual things. In the corner, a musician Emund didn't recognize was playing a gentle tune on a lute—the source of the melody he'd heard.

As Emund stepped in through the doorway, a few of the guests turned to look at him, though only for a moment. Across the room, a figure in a white apron was bent over one of the tables, speaking with the guests there. The guests laughed at something he said, and he laughed too.

The figure stepped away. He wasn't bent over the table at all. That was how he always stood. It was Teed, the village cripple whom so many people had picked on. He was walking with a cane now. In his free hand, he held a serving platter.

Teed had taken Emund's job. And it looked like he was doing it well.

Their eyes met across the hearth. Teed froze in place. So did Emund. For a long, long moment, they stared at one another.

One of them had to speak.

"Hello, Teed," Emund said, putting on a gentle smile. "Remember me?"

The hunchbacked Nord continued staring for a moment. Then he turned aside and called out, "Hezran, sir! Hezran!"

The far left guest room door opened. Emund's father came striding out, as big and imposing as he'd ever been. He looked at Teed, opening his mouth to speak. Then he looked where Teed was pointing.

Emund wondered what he'd expected to feel in this moment. He'd never been all that close to his father. But this was the life he'd always known. Working for his father, right here in this very room. The elder Nord was a large man, it was true. But it all seemed so small now.

Over the past five months, Emund's world had expanded a thousandfold. He'd seen Mzulft. He'd seen a Falmer warrior in the flesh. He'd seen a Daedric Prince. He'd joined the Blades of Men, been on speaking terms with a Chimer and a Dwemer, and read an Elder Scroll with no ill effect. If he hadn't grown up in this inn, it would've been just another speck in his view of things. So no, seeing his father again didn't faze him very much.

Before the man could react, Emund stepped around the hearth and said, "Father. Do you remember me?"

His father stood there, speechless, for a long moment. Then his eyes widened. "My son," he breathed. "Emund. What… happened? What happened to you?"

At that moment, four clawed feet came trotting loudly out of the guest room. Picker emerged into view.

Now that was a different matter.

Emund sank to his knees and held his arms out wide. "Yes, you too! It's me!"

The dog came leaping at him so fast, the impact nearly knocked Emund to his back. He could hardly keep Picker in front of him. She was reaching and writhing every which way, yowling and whining, trying to put herself all against him. It was an utter outpouring of emotion. Emund just laughed and did his best to pet her the whole time.

He looked up at his father again. "You wouldn't believe where I've been."

His father looked stunned. Paler than usual. He was fumbling for words. "It's… it… it's been a long time. Months, even. I couldn't remember your name. I couldn't remember you at all. What happened?"

"I got cursed," Emund said. "By a Daedric Prince. That's the really short version."

A lot of the guests were looking at him now. Their conversations had paused. Whatever was taking place here was obviously much more interesting.

Emund's father raised a hand in recognition of them all. "This is my son, Emund," he announced. "Finally returned, after a long time away. Let us celebrate! A drink for everyone, on the house!"

The room erupted in cheers.

A few minutes later, Emund was seated at the counter at the end of the room, with his father standing across from him. A tall mug of ale sat on the countertop, waiting for him to drink it. Everyone else in the room was far ahead of him on that count. Picker had worn herself out from her hysterical greeting, and was now curled up around the base of Emund's stool, nuzzling at his ankles and making more little noises. He was petting her head absently with his toe.

Teed was back to serving tables. He seemed surprisingly good at it. He was doing an odd technique where he'd set his serving tray down on the edge of the table before unloading its contents. But it seemed to work. Maybe he had some sort of trick for chopping wood, too.

Emund returned his attention forward.

"You've got some explaining to do," his father said. "All this time, I felt like something was wrong, but I could never figure out what. Even letting Teed live in the cellar room felt strange. Didn't remember it used to be yours. Why couldn't I remember you, son?"

He had to think about how to explain this.

At the end of the counter, there was a basket with half a dozen whole heads of cabbage piled up in it. Emund had no idea what it was doing there, but if he still worked here, he would've put it someplace more suitable. The placement mildly irritated him. Obviously, this was the price he paid for having moved on.

It wasn't very helpful when he was trying to think about explaining the past five months. Still, he tried his best.

"One day in Last Seed, we had a guest come in whom we couldn't seem to keep track of. He had a magical mask in his possession. The Gray Cowl of Nocturnal. Something made me put it on, and it erased my identity in the world. I tried to get you to remember me, but you wouldn't even recognize my face. You couldn't read my name when I wrote it down. It was terrifying."

After he was done talking, Emund took a hefty drink of his ale. It was cold and bitter on his palate. He didn't mind one bit.

His father nodded slowly. "Huh. I'm sorry, then. What'd you do after that?"

"I went on a mad adventure all over Skyrim, met a lot of people, learned how to fight, saw good Nords get killed, and a lot of other things like that. The important thing is, the curse is gone now."

"I'm glad for that," the man muttered. "Do you wish it hadn't happened?"

"It certainly wasn't my idea of a good time. But I was needed out there. It worked out in the end."

"Then I'm glad for that too."

Emund drank some more from his mug. The ale was cold, but it still put a nice fire in his belly. He supposed he could use that today.

There was more to say here. He knew it. He'd known since even before he'd arrived. But there was no easy way to put what was coming next. Emund took a deep breath in and out, and gathered his thoughts one more time.

"Father?"

His father was another mug of ale from the casket under the counter. He looked up briefly. "Yes?"

"I don't think I'm going to be staying in Tvalistead."

His father nodded. "I know."

That threw him off. Whatever he'd been planning to say next, whatever explanation he'd had in mind, it just evaporated. He paused and tried to think of a new reply. "Wh… you do? You're not wanting me back to work?"

The elder Nord set the mug down heavily on the counter, leaving it for Teed to scoop up.

"Son, I used to be a warrior. I'm an innkeeper now because it's a peaceful job for a peaceful Skyrim. But the reason I always raised you so hard was because I didn't want this job to make you soft. Looks like you got that dealt with already. I can't make you any stronger. If you're ready to leave the nest now, then so be it."

Then that was it. There would be no return to the old ways. Emund didn't know how he felt about that—relieved, maybe, that there wouldn't be more of an argument about it. Things in Tvalistead seemed like they were right where they needed to be already.

"I'll stay for the night," he said. "I'd want to do that anyway. This is a bad time to go north. Too much snowfall."

His father raised an eyebrow. "You're taking the mountain pass?"

Emund looked down beside himself. Picker had finally relaxed. She was laying her head on the floor beside Emund's boots. It wasn't going to be easy to leave a creature like her again. But he also knew he couldn't spend the next few years here on account of a dog.

"That's right." He looked back up. "I made a few friends in Snowhawk while I had the mask on. I want to see if any of them remember me."

He even had a special ceremonial sword to help jog their memory. It was still on his person, in his haversack with all the other belongings.

As the minutes went on, Emund looked out over the room behind him. All the guests enjoying their drinks, the warm fire burning in the hearth, the merriment of the Nord way. This had been his life—but that life was so far behind him now, even the clandestine life that had replaced it was now a thing of the past.

Emund doubted he'd ever be able to outdo his deeds over the past five months. And despite all that had happened, they were five months that couldn't be discussed. His mission had been a secret one, and the people he'd met all worked in the shadows. No songs would be sung of his honor. Not his, not Yngva's, not Gelther's, not anyone else's in this whole chain of events. The world would move on, and nobody would remember the sacrifices they'd made.

But he wasn't done yet. Whether it went remembered or forgotten, Emund's future lay ahead of him. And that was just fine. He knew exactly who he was.

"So," he said, turning to his father again. "What are you planning on doing with these cabbages, anyway?"

 **The End**


End file.
